Silent Hill 2: Crimson Memoir
by Lefthand
Summary: Formerly titled Silent Hill: The town awaits. James Sunderland's time in Silent Hill recounted by Samael. An alternate tale of Silent Hill 2. The story is finished. I've had a lot of fun writing it and I'd like to thank all my readers. Enjoy!
1. Prologue: The Demise of Nowhere

Author's Introduction

To call this a novelization of Silent Hill 2 would probably be inaccurate. It was my original intent to novelize it but lack of access to a PS2, limited internet time, notes that weren't as thorough as I'd hoped, and the irresistible need to add my own spin to it have resulted in something that differs from the game(and possibly from what the creators of the game intended, and certainly from some of the interpretations of the plot that I've heard). Some things I changed simply for the sake of realism(obviously James couldn't possibly drag around a board, a pipe, a shotgun, a rifle, five medical kits, ten health drinks, 4 boxes of bullets for each gun, and Pyramid Head's knife all at once), some for just for simplicity's sake(a couple puzzles have been--or will be, depending on when you read this-removed, although I've kept some, and distances have been compressed in many cases), and some things I just made up. The characters and story line are pretty much the same, though I've altered a few things about some of the characters. Also this story sort of ignores the fact that there are(as of this writing) two sequels to the game. And some of the first Silent Hill game is in here as well, again with dialogue and a few things I just plain made up.

Finally(as I've not got my actual game to reference) I've no doubt some locations and names of various streets, objects, persons, stores, etc. wrong and any corrections on that score are welcome(and probably appreciated). Of course, reviews and criticisms are always welcome.

Now, of course, all the legal rights and whatnot relating to this game are Konami's and not mine in any legal sense(and in most other senses as well).

Let's begin, shall we?

Prologue: The Demise of Nowhere

I had little to do with the events that lead up to my death. It was too late by the time I was able to deal with the situation myself. It was unfair and cruel; especially for one such as me. But I am not bitter. There is no bitterness in death. Only silence and rest. But I do remember the day quite well…

The halves were joined and the time was nigh. Dahlia stood laughing; Cybil lay prone on the floor winded; Harry stood still, not knowing what to do. I could feel the Rebirth approaching.

Another shot rang out, coming from the stairs. Dahlia was unfazed but so was the gunman.

"You used me," said Dr. Kaufman in a low voice, "you broke our deal." Dahlia laughed at him, "What do I care for your petty deals? Samael shall rise again and my daughter shall be the holy mother of the new God! Your part in this is finished, you are no longer needed."

"We'll see about that." Growled Kaufman as he reached inside his coat.

"What can you possibly hope to do?" Dahlia seemed arrogantly amused. Kaufman said nothing as he pulled out a glass vial with a red liquid swirling inside it.

Dahlia hissed, "Aglophaitis! I thought I got rid of that!"

Kaufman smirked, "Do you think I'm stupid? I always made sure I had some tucked away, in case things got out of hand. Like I said: _no one uses me_." He smirked again and said, "Here's my offering for your new God." And with that he threw the vial at the form of Alessa.

Ha! The idiot doctor thought only in terms of diseases and cures. But the Touch of Samael is no disease, it is divine energy possessing a host. Aglophaitis simply forces the energy out of the host just as it was forced out of Cybil in the amusement park. But what would happen if instead of containing the energy of Samael, the host contained Samael himself?

The husk of Alessa's body began to pulse with energy. Her back split apart and something began to emerge.

"What!" Said Kaufman, "That's not supposed to happen!" Dahlia started laughing an evil cackle that seemed to echo around the chamber. "It's-" Kaufman was about to say but a shock wave burst from Alessa knocking everyone except Dahlia to the ground.

Alessa was gone. In her place a large horned, scaly beast stood up and flexed a pair of bat-like wings and roared in triumph. Why shouldn't I triumph, after all, I was Samael and I was free from the shackles of that human host. Free after all these years. The air around me sizzled and cracked with energy and I could feel the rhythmic pulse of power flow through my body

Dahlia cackled, "It seems Doctor Kaufman that you have failed after all. The new God has arisen! Now I shall be exalted above all others!" I snorted with contempt, turned to her and with a bolt of red lightning from my burning eyes, I turned her heart to ash inside her chest. It is never a servant's place to decide who is exalted and who is not.

I turned to the figure of Cybil lying on the ground still dazed. She had been Touched by my presence before and it seemed she should be the next to feel my power. But then I felt a small sting in my left wing. I paused and angled it to look. There was a small hole in the membrane and a little trickle of dark blood was oozing out. I had been shot! Either by Harry or the doctor; but most disconcerting was that the rhythmic pulsing I felt in my body was not that of Divine Power, but rather the beating of a heart which pumped blood that carried vital oxygen to my brain and extremities which was all that stood between me and Death. Kaufman had been unwittingly successful in thwarting Dahlia. For while all the Powers of a Dark God were at my command, my body was composed of mere flesh, blood, and bone. I bellowed with rage and turned.

Kaufman lay on the floor still dazed. But Harry stood, the barrel of his gun pointed at me. When he was at the diner earlier today, his hand was unsteady, his grip unsure and his aim untested. But now he had faced more horrors in one day than most men see in a lifetime, and while his aim was not perfect, he had a steady hand and could shoot without hesitation. I sent a jagged bolt of energy towards Harry, intending to match his fate to Dahlia's. But it seemed it didn't move as fast as it had with Dahlia. It was not slow mind you, but not fast enough to hit Harry before he ran out of the way and the bolt sizzled on empty floor. He fired twice, one bullet struck me in the leg and the other ricocheted off one of my horns. My leg stung and bled, but the pain was of no moment and my movement unhindered.

My body may have been mortal, but it was far, far from being weak.

I stalked towards him and blew a breath of red fire at him. But the flames were too slow to engulf Harry and they barely managed to singe his hair. He returned fire, two shots again. One hit me in the shoulder, the other missed its mark as I twisted away from it. Again the bullet hole stung and bled, but I retained full use of my shoulder. Alas, my fire failed to hit him again but I did not despair for I had another plan.

Harry may or may not have realized it, but step by step, I was getting closer and closer to him. His twelve-shot gun wouldn't fire forever and the room was too small for him to retreat; another three steps and I wouldn't need lightning or fire, I would simply tear him apart with my bare hands. Harry fired at me again; one bullet hit my abdomen, but I barely felt it; the other bullet broke the skin on my chest but bounced off my sternum. I became emboldened by this, too emboldened it turned out.

Thinking my heart relatively protected, I growled and charged at the poor writer, claws extended. He stood his ground long enough to fire two shots and then fell over trying to duck under my murderous grip. I roared in triumph but it came out as just a loud gurgle as I felt my chest tighten. One bullet had been stopped by the thick bone of my ribs, but the other had gone between them and torn into what I now realized, to my horror, was my left lung.

Bad enough that one such as I should need a heart to pump my blood, but lungs with which to take in air? This was more than I could bear.

I slumped to my knees trying to regain the breath that seemed to just elude me. Harry sat up from the floor and emptied his clip into me. His aim was concentrated on my head but the first two bullets hit my neck, the rest ricochet off my skull, the thick bone refusing to crack. Nonetheless, my head rang with every shot and I fell to the floor. The wounds in my neck were gushing blood and the will to get up was quickly draining away. I managed to turn my head sideways and push my head up. I could see Cybil and Kaufman both sitting up, and a fourth person standing alone in the corner. I heard a clicking sound which I realized too late was Harry inserting a fresh clip into his gun. I turned towards him just in time to see the barrel of the gun pointed straight at my eye. I saw the flare, heard the blast then...nothing. My body went numb and I seemed to float up off the ground, but as I floated up I looked below and saw my own corpse, lying there with dark blood flowing out of the mouth and nose.

Then my whole body started to glow and change into a whirling vortex of energy. From that vortex Alessa emerged, cradling an infant wrapped in a white bundle. Harry had put his gun away and took the baby when she offered it to him. Then she simply said, "Go." And the room began shake; the vortex turned into flames that curled around Alessa until she was no longer visible.

Kaufman was already heading up the stairs, Cybil and Harry followed after him; the fourth figure stayed behind, unconcerned about the flames that had begun to spread and the shaking of the room. I couldn't let the others get away. Not after what they had done to me.

I searched for some way to stop them from leaving Nowhere, called on all my powers to find some way to stop them. But it seemed like I was powerless to stop them. Until, somewhere in Nowhere, a lone nurse, still in the thrall of my Touch answered my call.

_Kill Harry_, was the thought I sent to her, but the figure in the room shook his head.

_Kill Cybil. _But again the figure shook his head.

_Kaufman_? The figure didn't respond, and I sensed a small triumph. _Kill Kaufman_, the order reached out beyond floors and walls to the nurse. With that name burning in her mind she strode out of the room where Harry had last called her Lisa and into the main hallway.

The flames and shaking had started to take their toll and though the exit stairs remained intact, bits of the ceiling had fallen and Harry, Cybil, and the doctor were forced to run in single file. Kaufman was in the lead, his stride was longer and he was getting farther and farther ahead of the other two. A large chunk of the ceiling suddenly fell between them as they entered a hallway.

"Doctor!" Cybil called, "Give me a hand moving this!" Kaufman looked back and said, "Let Harry help you."

"He can't, he's got the baby."

"Well then you're out of luck, we don't have time to stop." And with that he ran to the stairs marked "Exit" at the end of the hall.

"Shit." Cybil muttered, and started pushing on the piece of ceiling, hoping that she could move it by herself. At first it seemed hopeless, but then she felt a little give and knew that she could get it. She gave one last push and it moved enough that she and Harry could get through.

Down the hall Kaufman had just about reached the stairs when a door behind him flung open, and Lisa, her face like wax and her eyes like the flames all around her, emerged. Kaufman looked at her, screamed and ran faster towards the stairs.

But he only made it five steps.

Lisa dragged him into the burning room from which she had emerged and slammed the door behind her. Cybil and Harry got to the door and tried to open it, but it was jammed shut and this time Cybil didn't think she could break it down. So they ran up the stairs, trying to ignore Kaufman's screams as Lisa prepared him for his final resting place alongside the bones of his fallen colleagues.

Somewhat mollified, I turned to the figure in the corner. "The Flauros, Metatron, it was the Flauros was it not?" Metatron said nothing. "The Flauros would not allow me to kill Harry." Metatron still said nothing, but coming from him, silence was as good as an affirmation. Undoubtedly Metatron would know when the Flauros was used and he would wonder why it had been suddenly awakened after all these years of silence.

"It does not matter, Samael." He said in his flat, expressionless voice, "You have been slain."

"So, have you then come here to rob me of my powers and escort me to Hell?" I tried to hide the despair I was feeling; deprived of my powers, I would be defenseless in Hell and despite his own origins, Lucifer does not look kindly on former angels, even one such as myself.

"No. You know us better than that, Samael." Metatron said, his voice still expressionless, "Your past services have not been forgotten. Rather, you shall be imprisoned here for eternity and stripped of your powers to harm the Righteous and the Innocent. When Nowhere is gone, you will become trapped in this town without form or substance. There is no more cult, no more seed, no more chance for another Rebirth. When I say eternity, I mean _eternity_." There was a slight edge to his voice in the last sentence and his gaze was hard. But I sensed one opportunity.

"What of the Damned?" I asked, "You did not say I would be completely stripped of my powers. May I still bring them to bear on those whose souls have been darkened?" Metatron said nothing, his face implacable.

"Then I can, can't I?" I said, with a faint trace of glee. Metatron ignored that comment and simply said, "I have pronounced your sentence. Now let it come to pass. I will be watching you." And with that he was gone.

The room shook, shuddered, burned and then everything disappeared in a swirl of smoke and flame.

And so it came to pass. Silent Hill sits and waits and I am one with the town. It calls to the guilty souls that have entered it before, but are still free to roam the earth and eat, shit, and die, while an immortal such as I is trapped here with only their torment as consolation. But I am not bitter. There is no bitterness in death. Only silence and rest.

But then of course, I'm not altogether dead...


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The town calls to all sinners that have had any connection to it, past or present. Some, perhaps wisely, ignore it and continue on with their lives until the weight of their crimes inevitably crushes them in the Afterlife.

Most, however, do not. They heed the Call, thinking perhaps that somewhere inside this town lays the answer to why they can't seem to escape a slight nagging of their conscience or a sinister presence that haunts their dreams. Such a one was James Sunderland.

He arrives at the rest area early in the day. I will not allow the Damned to bring their own vehicles in so the roads are always closed or blocked. He knows the rest area well; he's walked with Mary from town to there many times. There was a foot path that ran between the area and the town so despite the roads being blocked, he could probably make his way into town on foot.

He used the toilet and as he washes his hands and looks in the mirror, he wonders for the last time (as all who answer the Call do) if it is true. "Mary, could you really be in this town?" he muses.

The letter had come to him unexpectedly two days ago. The envelope was addressed to him and both the writing on the envelope and on the letter were definitely Mary's delicate cursive. But Mary had been dead for nearly three years. And James had been mourning her loss for nearly that long. It read:

"In my restless dreams,

I see that town. Silent Hill

You promised you'd take me there some day.

But you never did.

Well I'm alone there now...

In our 'special place'...

Waiting for you..."

For James, there had been no hesitation about whether or not to go to the town. The letter could be wrong. But if there was the slightest possibility...well, he would not pass it up. So he decided to come. And I was waiting for him.

He stops to admire the view from the rest area. It overlooks Toluca Lake, the town, and the forest all at once. He and Mary have spent some time here. He looks at the picture of her that he has carried with him for almost three years. It was taken long before her illness and her blue eyes sparkled as she gave the camera a coy little smile. He puts the photograph away as soon as he feels tears begin to well-up in his eyes. Three years and the photo still puts him in tears. But he cannot deal with tears right now. He straightens up, checks to be sure he has the map of town with him, locks his car and starts down the footpath leading into the forested area below.

_Our "special place"? What could that mean_, he thinks. The only answer that comes to him is Rosewater Park. He and Mary always went there when they were in Silent Hill. Several times they had spent an entire day there just watching the water. _It has to be Rosewater Park_, he assures himself.

A fog develops as he descends into the forest and it becomes thicker and thicker as he progresses. Occasionally he thinks he can hear sounds coming from somewhere in the fog, but whenever he stops to listen it is always quiet. The fog has grown so thick he cannot see much beyond either side of the path and he hopes he is going the right way. Eventually he passes a dried up well and if he remembers correctly, about a hundred yards down there should be a road that leads into town. But instead the path dead-ends at a cemetery gate.

_Damn_, he thinks, _my memory must not be as good_. He opens the gates and steps inside the cemetery. He sees headstones of varying types in front of him and then the figure of another one of the lost souls wandering the mists materializes from amongst the gloom.

"Hello?" he calls. The figure is a woman and she gives a startled cry when he calls to her.

"Oh! You frightened me." she says

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you; I'm James." he says as he walks closer. He can see her better now. She has black hair and brown eyes. She wears a white, baggy sweater and that, combined with her pale complexion, makes her almost blend into the mist like a ghost. Which, in a way, she is.

"I think I'm lost." He continues, trying to put her at ease with a sheepish tone.

"Lost?" The woman says abruptly, seeming slightly alarmed.

"Yeah, I'm trying to find my way into town."

"Oh," she says, relaxing a bit, "You just go out the other gate and make a left, the road there goes right into town...but..."

"But what?" he asks.

"There's...I don't know...something wrong with the town."

"Is it something dangerous?"

"Maybe, I don't know...why do you want to go there?"

"I'm looking for someone...important to me." Conversations about Mary are always difficult for him and he doesn't feel like talking with a stranger about her.

"Oh...yeah, I'm looking for some one too...my Mama--I mean, my mother. I thought my father and brother were here too but it looks like they're not." He wonders if she is talking about finding their names among the headstones but does not ask.

"Well," he smiles, "I hope you find them. Thanks for the directions, uh...I didn't catch your name..."

"Oh, it's Angela...are you...you're still going?"

"Yes."

"Even though it might be dangerous?"

"Yeah, I guess..." he pauses, "...I guess I just don't care if it's dangerous or not."

"Well...good luck."

"Thanks." And they both turn to leave. He makes his way across the cemetery, the swish of his feet on the grass the only sounds in the mist and the headstones. He gets to the road outside and makes a left as Angela has told him.

The road is unpaved, but not many of these roads are. James walks down the road for about ten minutes; the forest has begun to thin out and he reaches some road works signs and a pedestrian underpass leading into town. _Maybe they're paving some of the roads_, he thinks, _that might explain why the main road was blocked_. He walks through the underpass. It is not as misty underneath, but it is not as clean either and the smell of oil sticks in his nostrils until he finally makes it to the stairs leading out.

He comes out on what he thinks is Saul Street, but he cannot be sure because the fog is still so thick. He walks on for a bit, the sound of his shoes on the pavement the only thing he can hear. He passes a few shops that appear closed or abandoned. But he does recognize a florist shop and is pretty sure he knows he is on Saul. He double checks his map to be sure. And then he heads to the intersection of Lindsey Street which should not be much further up the road.

Once they've entered the town itself, it does not take long for a soul's unconscious guilt to begin to manifest itself physically. As he reaches the intersection James sees a large streak of a crimson liquid he can only assume is blood. It seems like it is fresh, still wet with a dim shine. He looks around and to his right he sees a shadow fade into the fog.

"Hello?" James calls, "Are you okay?" There is no answer so he walks to where the shadow has been but finds only another streak of blood heading up the street. James still cannot see anything beyond a few yards so he simply walks up the street. He finds an alley on his right with another streak of blood leading into it. He cautiously walks down the empty alley. Beyond it, there seemed to be a construction area. He gets to the end of the alley and sees one last streak of blood before the pavement ends in the dirt of the construction site. James walks into the site, though he cannot see any signs of a building in progress. There are plenty of lumber materials, construction vehicles, a cement mixer, and portable toilets, but nothing else.

"Hello?" James calls again. There is still no response. But he does hear some kind of noise. He cannot quite tell what it is until he moves deeper into the construction area where he notes that it sounds like static. As he moves closer he determines it is coming from what would eventually be another pedestrian underpass; at the moment though, it just seems to be a tunnel with a few caution signs and discarded pieces of wood around it. As he approaches, James cannot see very far in but he is able to make out a small metallic object sitting on two wooden crates against the right side of the tunnel wall.

As James gets closer he realizes it is a portable radio and is emitting the static that he hears. He walks over and picks it up. He tries adjusting the tuner but he does not pick up anything other than more static. Suddenly a flicker of movement towards the back of the partially completed tunnel catches his eye. He sees a body lying on the floor and there is something bending over it.

Something not human.

It is thin, gaunt and bipedal but with an armless torso. Its skin is the color of dried blood; it seems to cover the thing like a tightened sheet, and the torso and head twists and writhes as if trying to tear itself free of its own skin. The head doesn't seem to have a face, just a very subtle bulge that might have been a nose underneath the membrane of its skin. It makes a deep-throated gurgling noise as it straightens up and turns toward him.

He looks around for some kind of weapon and picks up a thick piece of wood with some nails protruding out of the end. The creature takes two shambling steps towards him, the movement of its legs based more around the rotation of its hips than the bending of its knees, seems to almost limp with each leg. A thin slit of a mouth opens on its head. The creature makes another deep throated gurgling sound, gives a violent twitch of its head and spits a brownish mist at him.

He instinctively puts his hand up and turns his face away. Most of the spray lands on his jacket and sleeve but some gets on his hand where it stings like a hot needle. He swings the piece of wood and hits the creature squarely on the head. It makes a high pitched squealing noise and staggers. Its thin legs seemed ill-suited to balancing itself and he strikes it again before it can recover. The creature falls straight to the ground and starts to twitch. He smashes it again with his make-shift club and it lets off one last squeal and lays still as blood the color of tar slowly drains out of its mouth and pools underneath it. The static of the radio fades.

His other hand still stinging, he sets the wood down on the crates and takes some tissues out of his jacket pocket. He wipes the fluid off of his hand and jacket. The stinging in his hand stops but the affected area is still reddened and chapped. He normally hates littering, but he is loathe to put the dirty tissue back in his pocket so he drops it on the ground.

Not wanting to look at the thing's corpse, he steps around it to check the body it had been bending over. It was a man and one look tells James that he is dead. His clothes are almost completely soaked with blood; he has two large gashes on his neck; his face is blistered and chapped almost beyond recognition and a thin coat of the liquid James had wiped off his hand covers it. The smell of the tunnel, a combination of axel grease, vomit and blood, starts to get to him and seeing there is nothing he can do for the man, walks over to the crates and picks up the radio.

It was small enough to easily slip into one of the pockets on his jacket; he can probably take it with him. The tunnel was not the best place for reception; maybe if he went somewhere else he could get a broadcast out of it. But suddenly it _does_ begin to broadcast, it is a voice, but the static is so thick he can only make out bits and pieces of what it was saying: "Ja... I'm...e. Come to...s...ting...f... id...you k... Jam..." Then it goes silent.

"Huh." he says. After trying in vain to work the tuner he puts the radio in the inside pocket of his jacket and then takes up the piece of wood. _Angela was right_, he thinks, _there is something wrong with this town and it _is_ dangerous_. The piece of wood isn't much of a weapon, but it is all he has at the moment.

He leaves the tunnel and checks his map. The main street he had just left was Lindsey, if he went to the north up that street all the way to Nathan Avenue and make a left, he will eventually come to the park. The Damned always think it is that simple. But it never is.

He puts the map away and takes one last look at the mouth of the tunnel. From here it just seems like an ominous hole. He shivers and not wishing to dwell on it, makes his way back to Lindsey Street.

The fog is still thick on Lindsey and he still cannot even see across the road. He heads north, sticking to the sidewalk until he suddenly finds his way blocked by a large wall composed of metal girders draped with tarps and enveloped by a chain link fence with barb wire. He swears, and crosses the street, hoping to find an opening. The wall looks like a partially completed office building but the tarps and fence seem worn and there is no sign that the building has been worked on recently.

Time to give him the Warning.

He stops when he is almost across the street. There is another body lying against the fence. It is a dark haired man, but his face is so dirty James cannot guess his age. He wears a tweed coat and striped tie that are splattered with mud. His eyes are closed and his head lies at an odd angle. "Hello?" James says to him. No response. He walks over to the man, kneels down and puts his fingers on the man's throat. There is no pulse and he is colder than the fencing he is lying next to. James is not a doctor, but he sees some of the man's vertebrae protruding from the skin on his neck and assumes that the man's neck has been broken.

He looks down and sees the man's hand holding a key ring with two keys. He picks it up and sees that the ring also has a piece of plastic attached to it marked "Woodside Apts." He puts the keys in his pocket. The name sounds vaguely familiar and James is about to get his map out when he notices a white envelope next to the man's knee.

On it is written "**JAMES S**." in big black letters. With a slight chill, he bends over and picks it up. It is a square envelope, slightly bigger than one that would hold a greeting card. He opens it and finds seven folded pieces of paper. He unfolded the first one; on it, in black ink, was written:

**If you want to be safe, James, turn back now. There may still be time before the demons find you.** **If you're reading this, they've already found me. Please don't let them take you.**

He unfolds the second note which is also written in black ink but the handwriting is much less steady:

**They were there, I'm certain. But my friend says he didn't see anything. If that's true, does that mean that what I saw was an illusion? But whether that thing that ate human beings was real, or whether it was just some kind of hallucination that my mind dreamed up... one thing I know for sure is that I'm beyond all hope. **

_What the hell?_ He wonders. Faintly, the radio began to emit static as James unfolds the third note. This one is in blue ink and the handwriting is again different:

_**It seems that they're attracted to light. That's why people who need light to see are their natural prey. They also react strongly to sound, though they can't hear the radio. If you want to go on living, you'd be better off just sitting in the dark and staying quiet. But even that probably won't save you. **_

James ignores the static as he reads the fourth note:

**If you're trying to fight them, the best thing to do is relax. It's no good fighting if you're crazy with fear. They don't stand well, and I think most of them can be killed, even if they seem tougher than most people.**

The fifth note, written in the same unsteady hand as the second read:

**you can't fight them all! you shouldn't fight them all! that's impossible! no one can fight them all! don't fight them at all! the best thing to do is run away!**

The sixth note simply said:

**Run away!**

The static is coming in quite loud as James opens the last note. Written in red ink were two words that had been written over and over until they covered the page:

**Run away!Run away!_Run away!_Run away!Runaway!Run away!Run away!_Runaway!_Run away!Run away!_Run away!_Runaway!**

**Runaway!Run away!Runaway!_Run away!_Run away!Run away!**

**Run away!_Runaway!_Run away!Runaway!**

Then James sees it; a shadow moving slowly out of the fog; a shadow that had the same awkward gait as the thing in the tunnel. "Shit." he says, dropping the papers and bringing up the piece of wood. Then, off to the side, he sees another shadow moving in unison with the first. He begins to back away along the wall throwing glances behind him, painfully aware that if he is not careful he could trip over the sidewalk or worse, back himself into a corner.

It is with one of those glances that he sees the third and fourth figures come from out of the fog behind him, effectively leaving him surrounded. He can hear their gurgling over the static of the radio. "Shit! Shit!" he curses, and tries to think. The wall is behind him, he cannot possibly climb it. He cannot fight them all off. He starts to panic as they came closer, their bodies writhing beneath their blood coated skin, but he quickly gets control of himself. Maybe he need not fight them all off. He does not think they can possibly run all that fast with their spindly legs. The thing in the tunnel did not have very good balance. If he ran at one of them and hit it hard, he could probably knock it down and then make a run for it. But he will have to be quick before they all get too close.

He selects the fourth creature as knocking it down will put the most distance between him and the others. And with that decision made, he simply charges at it, swinging the wood like a baseball bat. He puts his hips into the swing, trying more to push the creature over than to actually hurt it. The combination of that and his momentum easily knocks the creature down, though his momentum carries him farther than he thought and he nearly trips over the creature's form.

But he does not waste any time and takes off down the street as fast as he can. The static of the radio grows quieter and quieter as he runs. When it finally stops altogether, he pauses to get his breath and check the map.

Lindsey Street was blocked. But if he goes to Katz, makes a right and stays on Katz until he gets to Munson, he could take Munson north to the park. He notes in passing that Woodside Apartments is also on Katz. He hopes the man with the key had not been running away from Woodside. But Katz is the fastest way to get to Munson and to the park. And he doesn't really care if it is dangerous.

Suddenly the radio starts to emit static again. He does not think the creatures could have caught up to him so quickly. He looks back but cannot see anything. Then he hears the gurgling noise to his front. He whirls around and the thing moving out of the fog is slightly to his left. He runs past it, narrowly avoiding its spray. _Christ_, he thinks, _how many of these things are there?_

There are always as many as it takes but They never seem to realize that.

He runs to Katz and makes a right. The radio has gone silent again and he starts walking, trying to catch his breath again. He continues to walk for another two minutes until he hears static on the radio again. _Jesus, these things must be everywhere_, he realizes. _Screw it_, he thinks, _I'll just have to make a run for it_. He does not wait for anything to appear, he just runs. He sometimes sees the shapes briefly in the fog, but they cannot keep up with him.

He is running so fast he almost smashes into the wall that blocks Katz Street from Munson. He looks at for a second in disbelief and then screams, "No! No! Fuck! No!" He kicks at the wall a few times before composing himself and quickly searches for a way around it, conscious that things could come for him at anytime. He finds no way through and then silently curses and takes out his map.

All wasn't lost, he saw. Woodside Apartments spanned the two streets and would probably have a Munson Street entrance, or at least a fire escape that came out there. He still has the keys; he can probably cut through the apartment complex and get through to Munson. He races back on Katz, hoping he won't have to go too far or else he might run into some of the spitting things he'd passed. Luck is with him this time, because he hardly goes a hundred feet when he sees a large wrought-iron gate, with the letters "Woodside Apartments" above it. It is shut and padlocked. He tries the keys on it and the second one opens it. He pushes the gate open with a creak, steps in and then quickly closes and locks it behind him. The things didn't have any arms and he was pretty sure they wouldn't be able to open the gate, but he still wants to get inside, out of view and out of the fog. The building is large; he can't see the ends of it in either direction, though the fog is so thick that it doesn't mean much except that the building is probably more than one story. As he walks closer he can see the walls around the main entrance are painted in a wood grain that has faded somewhat. He walks up to the door. There may have been a directory and intercom box next to it at some time, but they have both broken off.

He uses the other key to open the door and enter the lobby. It isn't really a lobby. Just a small room with a door on the far side that reads "Courtyard," a staircase going up, a wooden bench, and a notice board--empty except for an apartment map. After checking to see if the room is secure, James sits down on the bench to take a much needed rest. He is going to need it when he makes his way through the apartments.

There is now no going back.

Were it up to Me, I would simply have Them roam the streets, letting the demons of Their own devising torture and haunt them. But such things are not at my discretion. The Path to Redemption must never be blocked, They must choose to remain in the town, They must be given the Warning, and the demons must not be allowed to take them by surprise. James has chosen to remain and chosen to ignore the Warning. They always do. Nevertheless it must always be delivered to Them.

Metatron will allow no less of me.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

James decides he has rested long enough. He gets up off of the bench and goes over to the map of the apartments. According to the map, it looks as if he could just cut through the courtyard over to the Munson Street entrance.

Not so fast James...

He turns the knob but the courtyard door does not budge. _Damn_, he thinks, _locked_. He looks back at the apartment map. _If I go up to the second floor, make a right down the hall, then a left, then...Ah, the hell with it..._he pulls the map off the notice board and folds it into his jacket.

He walks up the stairway to the second floor. The stairway is dirty and doesn't seem to have been cleaned in a long time. The door to the second floor opens with a creak and steps into the hall. It is mostly dark; only two or three of the lights seem to be on and they give off only a dim glow. Just to the left of the door, however, is an open room with light coming out from it. He cautiously walks over to it and discovers it is a laundry room.

The walls are a light blue; the light comes from two fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. It holds a washer, dryer, sink and a trash chute in the corner. None of the machines are running and nor do they have any clothes in them. Indeed, it seems like the room hasn't been used in some time. The sink is dry and while not exactly clean, there are no water stains or soap scum. A layer of dust seems to cover everything...except, he sees, for the trash chute. He opens it and looks down. He can see a black plastic bag wedged in the chute just out of his reach. "Hmm." He says.

He goes back out into the hall. To his left the hall is dark, but to his right, past the stairway door, he thinks he can see a faint speck of light at the far end of the hall.

He walks down the hall, slightly uneasy in the utter silence of the building. Darkness surrounds him as he walks down the hall and soon he cannot see anything except for the light ahead. As it gets closer he can see it is coming from underneath an apartment door. He gets to the door; he can faintly make out the number: 205. He knocks on the door. When there is no response, he tentatively puts his ear to the door, listening for something, anything that might tell him what is in the room. But the room beyond seems as silent as the hallway outside. He then puts his hand on the doorknob and slowly turns it.

The door opens with a barely audible click and James cautiously steps inside, his club raised. The source of the light is not ceiling fixtures as he was expecting, but rather something in the center of the room. It is sitting atop what appears to be an androgynous mannequin torso. It is then that he notices that the floor is littered with mannequin limbs. Arms and legs constructed with such careful detail that it is only the eerie gray coloring and the empty sockets on their ends that gives away their artificial nature. He takes a moment to collect himself before walking over to the torso, carefully stepping over the scattered limbs.

The light comes from a small black flashlight with a flexible head and a clip on the side. He leans the club against the torso and picks up the flashlight, examines it, flexes the head sideways and clips it to the breast pocket of his jacket. He pats it to make sure it is secure.

Suddenly, static begins to blare from the radio. This time it comes as a loud hiss with a staccato popping sound. He instinctively grabs his club as he hears the clatter of mannequin limbs being kicked aside and a shape rises up from behind the torso. It seemed to be composed entirely of mannequin legs; it stood on one pair and had a second pair attached to the top. The legs are feminine and would have been attractive were it not for their gray color and the twisting lines that run around them like veins reflecting the flashlight's glow.

It moves forward, faster than the spitting things. It kicks the torso aside with one of its top legs and the other kicks towards James, barely missing him. He swings the club and strikes the creature in its midsection where the two pairs of legs join. The blow lands hard, the nails scratch it, and the creatures seems moved slightly off center. But its legs are thicker and stronger than the spitters and it rights itself before James can follow up on his first strike. It kicks at him again, one leg following the other. He manages to miss the first leg, but catches the second one in the shoulder. The legs are heavier than they look and while he keeps his balance, he knows there will be a sizable bruise there. He tries not to think about what would happen if he took one of the kicks in the head.

He steps backwards and slips on one of the arms lying on the ground. The creature is on him before he can recover and it throws a kick that hits him square on the chest, knocking him to the ground. James rolls to the side, thankful that the blow had not landed lower where it would have knocked the wind out of him. Nevertheless, the pain in chest is tremendous and under other circumstances, he would be amazed that the blow didn't crack his sternum.

He comes up in a crouch and an idea springs to mind. He strikes the side of the creature's knee and it stumbles. This time it is not able to regain its balance before James rises into a lunge and thrusts his club into the creature's midsection. It is pushed forward and trips over the very arm that nearly undid James. Before it even hits the ground James is on his and brings his club down on the creature. He smashes it three times before it gives a strangely feminine cry and lies still. The static of the radio abruptly fades.

He leans against the wall to rest for a minute. His chest aches from the mannequin's kick, but the pain is not debilitating and after a few breaths he searches the rest of the apartment. It had probably been intended for a couple given the size of the bedroom and the two separate dressers. But apart from the dusty bed sheets and the scattered mannequin limbs the apartment is bare. As he goes to leave he notices that the scratches on the dead creature had been bleeding the same blood that came from the spitters. He shivers and closes the door behind him.

Using the light he checks his map. The fire escape lay at the end of the hall on the other side of the laundry room. He also notes that in the dark he had missed a second hallway heading north. He puts his map away and backtracks down the hall past the laundry room. When he arrives at the metal fire escape door he discovers that it has a knob rather than a push-bar as he had been expecting. The door is, of course, locked. "Damn." He whispers and consults his map again. There are stairs at the end of the north hall that lead to the courtyard.

He back tracks again to the hall he bypassed, his unease at the silence of the building beginning to turn into impatience at all the walking back and forth he has to do. The hall to the north is almost completely dark. As he moves farther he can see a dim red light in the distance that is probably an exit sign. Before he can find out for sure however, he is stopped by thick steel bars that block the hall next to room 208. Frustrated, he checks his map again and decides to go to the third floor try the fire escape door there.

With the light, he is able to maneuver the stairs faster and quickly makes his way up to the third floor. The third floor hallway seems much the same as the second floor, except immediately to his right the way is blocked by steel bars much like the ones on the second floor. His is about to curse again when his eyes catch a glimmer of something metallic on the floor on the other side of the bars. He crouches on the floor to get a better look.

The object is a key with something written on it that he cannot quite make out. The key is not far from the bars and he begins to reach for it. I have a sense that something is wrong before he does, but nonetheless we are both equally surprised to see a white shoe appear and kick the key down the hall. "Ha-ha!" says a sing-song voice. James looks up just in time to see a little blond girl in a pink dress disappear down the hall.

Something I can never count on is the presence of outsiders within the town. Unlike with the Damned, I am never alerted to their presence upon their arrival into Silent Hill. I have no means of keeping track of them nor am I able to obtain any information about them. Indeed, were it not for occasional encounters with the Lost Ones I would never have known that normal humans are still able to enter the town. I do not know how they do this. Perhaps they inadvertently follow one of those answering the Call, though They tend come alone and refuse any company; perhaps the physical barriers I use to keep vehicles out of the town do not exist to them, though I doubt that or else the town would have resumed its status as a tourist location; perhaps Metatron summons them, though it is unlike him to deliberately interfere with any of Their lives. In the end, these outsiders are one of the things that I can do nothing about. The evil of this town is not permitted to touch them. Very seldom do they ever disrupt the punishment of the Damned however.

So, while James and I remained equally clueless as to reasons for her presence, I am not concerned by it. There is no concern in death. Indeed, she has delayed James' access to the key so perhaps…No I feel Metatron pulling my thoughts away from the little girl and focusing them back towards James who has turned away from the bars and started walking back down the hall towards the fire escape.

Once the protective halo of an outsider is gone it does not take long for the town to re-assert itself. James suddenly hears the telltale static on the radio. Ahead of him, from somewhere beyond the range of his flashlight, he can make out the deep throated gurgle of one of the spitting creatures. Unlike the streets, or the incomplete underpass or even the room with the mannequin, the hall did not allow for much maneuverability. _Damn_, he thinks, _I can't avoid it here; I'll have to fight it_. He decides aggression is better than caution at this time and with his club at the ready he charges forward. As soon as he makes out the twitching outline of the creature he brings the club smashing down as hard as he can on its head. The blow is so strong the creature drops immediately to the ground with a high pitched squeal. Unfortunately, it also breaks off the top half of the club, leaving James with a splintered stump. He bangs the stump on the creature's head repeatedly and it is enough to finish it off. But the weapon is now completely useless and he discards it with a curse. Maybe the fight with the mannequin softened the wood too much; maybe it wasn't that strong to begin with. _Either way_, he thinks, _I wish I had a better weapon than that_.

Many things in this town are born from a wish…

He no longer heads for the fire escape, his need for another weapon supercedes everything else. The hallway itself offers nothing so he starts to try the apartment doors. Most seem stuck, refusing to even rattle in their frames. But 301 opens with a small creak.

The only light in this room comes from a dim bulb in the kitchenette area to his left. The floor in front of him is covered in dark spots that do not seem to have any pattern to them. As he steps into the living room on his right and the flashlight shines directly on the floor he realizes that they are not spots, but holes. Each one seems to be roughly the size of a penny and as he shines his light around he sees that they cover the walls and the ceilings. At the center of the living room something silvery shines in the light. It takes him a moment to realize it is a shopping cart. He wonders what a shopping cart is doing in the middle of an apartment building and goes closer to examine it.

The cart itself seems like a normal steel shopping cart, though there are no markings to indicate what store it came from. Inside the cart is a large brown paper bag. He shines the light into the paper and gasps at his discovery.

His knowledge and experience of firearms is limited, but he recognizes the large black pistol in the bag as being the same kind as Mary's father had given him to use on the firing range. James never really cared much for guns, but his father-in-law had and in an effort to bond with him after he and Mary got engaged, James had gone on many trips to the firing range with him. His aim was never really that good, but he had memorized the basics and could at least fire the gun without losing his grip. He cannot remember the specific brand but it had been something German sounding; Heckler and Koch perhaps.

He lifts the gun out of the shopping cart and checks the magazine. It is fully loaded, about 10 shots he guesses. He looks in the shopping cart again and finds that it also contains an extra magazine, a hip holster, a pack of 50 bullets and, strangely, a small sand bag. He puts the holster on and slips the bullets into the inside pocket of his jacket along with the spare magazine. He feels too edgy to put the gun in the holster, but he leaves the safety on so as not to accidentally fire. He is unsure of what to do with the sand bag so he leaves it.

He goes to search the rest of the apartment. The layout is much the same as the others, the only real difference is that everything in the rooms is riddled with bullet holes. Finding nothing else of interest and beginning to shiver in the presence of all of those ominous holes, he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Back in the hall, he proceeds straight to the fire escape door. He does curse when he finds it locked, but he is not entirely surprised. He briefly considers shooting the lock open, but the entire door is made of metal and he quickly discards the notion. He looks again at his map. He seems to have exhausted all the routes. He looks at the ground floor to see if there is another way around the building. He finds nothing else of help…but then something catches his eye. _The trash chute_, he thinks, remembering the bag in the laundry room. He did not give it much thought before but with very few options left, he wants to know what was in the bag that had been dumped so recently. The dumpster that the trash chute led to is located near the front of the apartment building; he could easily get to anything dropped down the shoot. Still slightly chilled by the bullet holes he reenters room 301 and quickly takes the sand bag from the shopping cart. _This should work,_ he thinks, weighing the sand bag in his hand.

He sets off for the second floor, moving faster. The gun has made him bolder and he worries less about making noise. He arrives at the second floor; his impatience has grown to the point where he starts to run to the laundry room. He opens the trash chute and drops the sand bag down. It dislodges the plastic bag with ease and both fall down the chute. He can hear the rustle of plastic and the soft thud of the sand bag echo back up the chute as they land in the refuse area one story below.

He leaves the laundry room and jogs back to the stairwell door when a sudden scream brings him up short. It comes from the hall leading to room 208. Despite the confidence he had moments ago; he stops, flicks the safety off of the gun and proceeds slowly down the hallway.

He begins to hear static as he comes to the bars. A large hooded figure stands behind them. James starts to aim the gun, but the figure turns and moves down the hall and out of the light. The static remains. James realizes that it is a different sound than he has heard before. He pauses to listen closer and realizes that the static is not emanating from his radio but rather from room 208.

He looks at the door and sees a large splintered hole where the knob used to be. There is a faint, silvery light coming from inside the room. He cautiously pushes the door open and steps into the room, gun at the ready.

The lights in the apartment have been dimmed but he can see that this apartment, unlike the others, has been lived in recently. The living room contains a couch, a desk with a lamp, a coffee table, bookshelf, and two armchairs. The silvery light and static comes from a television in the corner that is not getting any reception.

Some one is sitting in one of the armchairs facing the television; their head is silhouetted by the light of the television screen. He does not bother to greet them though; he can see from a small dip in the top of the head and a dark stain on the TV screen that the figure is dead. He walks over to the chair; a man sits there and, as James suspected, he is dead; his head and face have been bashed in by some heavy object. Blood has spilled all over the chair and floor and there is splatter on the television screen. None of it is dried and the pool of blood at the base of the chair continues to grow bigger. He looks at the ruined face and thinks, _what could have done this_?

He switches off the TV, the static noise being too big a distraction. Seeing nothing else he can do for the dead man, he leaves the living room and searches the rest of the apartment. The kitchenette is cluttered with pots, pans and plates; the man had probably been a bachelor. The refrigerator is broken and there is no food inside. Indeed there does not seem to be any food at all; despite the clutter in the sink and on the counters, none of the crockery or any of the plates appear to have any food scraps or stains on them. In one of the cabinets, though, James finds two protein bars and a 16 ounce bottle of water. All the running around has made him thirsty and while not starving, James has not had anything to eat since before he left the rest area outside of town. He opens the water bottle, takes a sip to be sure it is safe to drink and then tears open one of the protein bars and eats it. The bar is somewhat dry and stiff and has a slight after taste of chalk but that is dealt with easily by taking sips from the water bottle.

He finishes off the protein bar and drinks the last of the water. He continues his search of room 208, aware again of the absolute silence that seems to cover the entire building. The bedroom contains an unmade queen-size bed with a nightstand and lamp, but nothing else.

The next room is completely bare; perhaps it the owner had been planning to renovate it, perhaps not. What catches James' attention however, is the seven foot irregularly shaped hole that has been smashed into the far wall. Shining his flashlight into the hole he sees that it has broken into the adjacent apartment, room 209.

Remembering the thing on the other side of the bars, he proceeds cautiously into the next room, gun at the ready. But the radio stays quiet and there is no sign of the hooded thing.

The room on the other side is much like the rest of the abandoned apartments; a couch, a bed, an empty kitchenette and plenty of dust. Pieces of the wall litter the floor in the sitting area and little flecks still descend from the wall every now and then, giving James the impression that the wall was broken recently. He quickly checks the bedroom to be sure the entire apartment is clear and then, heart pounding, he opens the door and steps into the hallway.

On the other side of the bars the hall is clear as far as he can see and the radio stays quiet. He goes to the end and enters the stairwell. The door to the courtyard is locked, but he remembers the key on the third floor. According to his map, this stairway should bypass the bars on that floor. He goes up the stairs and enters the third floor. He moves cautiously, knowing he is on the same side of the bars as that thing from the second floor.

As he moves down the hall he sees room 307 is ajar and there is a faint light coming from inside it. He knows the thing might be in there, but he also remembers the little girl was on this floor and it might be she who is in the room.

Gun ready, he eases the door open. He is in a small foyer, there is a coat closet on his right and a light comes from his left. He turns off the flash light, not wanting to alert anyone or anything to his presence. He goes to his left into a sitting area and then, he sees it.

He cannot measure the height precisely, but he guesses it must be around six-and-half feet tall. It appears to be dressed in a tight, sleeveless robe bound by a small belt. The robe is off-white with a slight brownish cast. Its limbs are the same off-white color only slightly darker; he cannot tell if that is the color of its skin or if it is clothing of some kind. Its head is covered by a large, dirty red hood that reaches to the middle of its torso. The top of the hood ends in a sharp point, giving it a pyramid shape. The hood appears to be made of cloth but it is stiff and does not move or shift with the creature's movements. Its hands grasp the legs of a mannequin creature like the one he saw in 205 and it violently twists and pulls the creature's limbs, as if trying to tear them off.

Panic overcomes James and he runs into the coat closet and pulls the shudders together. He tries to keep it as quiet as he can, but not quiet enough; the creature tosses the mannequin aside like a rag doll and turns to face the closet door. There are no discernable eyeholes in the hood but James can still feel it gazing at him through the closet shudders. It strides towards the closet, its steps even and disturbingly quiet. James brings the gun up, his hands are shaking badly but he fires the gun anyway through the shudders. In the dark of the closet the muzzle flash blinds him and the sound of the gun firing in an enclosed space deafens him so he can neither see nor hear what becomes of the pyramid headed thing.

Three clicking sounds in a row tell him he has emptied his clip. He looks outside the closet and sees nothing. He quickly changes the magazine and opens the shudders. Still nothing. No body, no trail of blood. But there are no bullet holes in any of the walls, he must have hit something. He checks the rest of the apartment, finding nothing other than a few mannequin limbs. But as he is about to leave he sees something metallic flash in the closet.

At first he figures it is one the expended bullet casings. But then he realizes it is the wrong shape and color. He walks over and finds it is another key. He picks it up and examines it. It resembles the other apartment keys and the letters CTYD are engraved on it. The letters baffle him for a moment but then, _"Courtyard," this must be the courtyard key_, he thinks.

After checking to be sure the hallway is clear, he stops to reload his spent magazine and then continues down the hall. He gets to the intersection and goes right, eventually finding the iron bars. A short search of the ground reveals the key marked FIRE ESCP. He then heads back down the stairs to the second floor and from their back to the lobby. The entire time there is no sign of the little girl or the pyramid headed thing. He is alone in the eerie silence of the building.

Before entering the courtyard, James remembers the plastic bag he knocked out of the garbage chute and detours out the front doors and around the outside of the building to the dumpster. The smell is not as bad as he was expecting. The building had shown signs of abandonment; there was very little refuse in the dumpster and what little there was had been there for some time so the dumpster smelled more of rust and dirt than rotted food and mildew. James holsters the gun and scrambles into the dumpster and retrieves the bag. He climbs back out and begins to go through the bag's contents.

It contains newspapers; for the most part, they are uninteresting, however, one article has been highlighted with a green marker:

**The police announced today that**

**Walter Sullivan, who was arrested**

**on the 18th of this month for the**

**brutal murder of Billy Locane and**

**his sister Miriam, committed suicide in his jail cell early on the**

**morning of the 22nd.**

**According to the police**

**statement, Sullivan used a soup**

**spoon to stab himself in the neck,**

**severing his carotid artery.**

**By the time the guard discovered**

**him, Sullivan was dead from blood**

**loss, the spoon buried two inches**

**in his neck.**

**An old schoolmate of Walter**

**Sullivan's from his hometown of**

**Pleasant River said "He didn't**

**look like the type of guy who**

**would kill kids.**

**But I do remember that just**

**before they arrested him he**

**was blurting out all sorts of**

**strange stuff like 'He's trying**

**to kill me. He's trying to**

**punish me. The monster... the**

**red devil. Forgive me. I did it,**

**but it wasn't me!'."**

**The schoolmate then added**

**"I guess now that I think of it,**

**he was kinda crazy."**

He pauses, unsure of what to make of the article. _"The monster…the red devil._" He thinks, _the thing with the pyramid head?_ The last thing he finds in the bag is a small silver coin roughly the size of a quarter. On the face of it is a bearded man with a heavily lined face and baggy eyes. At the bottom, in simple letters, OLD MAN, is printed.

He pockets the coin and returns to the lobby. He unlocks the courtyard door and passes through. The air outside is still thick with mist and he cannot see the entire courtyard. Before him is part of a grass lawn that was once well tended but its green color is now faded and James can see a few weeds beginning to sprout. He walks around the lawn, wanting to avoid any unseen landscaping obstacles. His mind has begun to wander, so he does not acknowledge the static being emitted by the radio until he sees the spitter's frame emerge from the mist. His pulse quickens but he keeps his nerve and pulls the gun out of its holster, lines up the sights on the creature and fires. His hands are still shaking and the recoil on the gun is harder than he expects, but he manages to hit the creature with both shots in the torso. The creature stumbles and the twisting of its body seems aggravated but it does not fall. _This thing isn't human_, James thinks, _maybe in the head…_

It is a more difficult shot but he manages to steady his hands enough to squeeze off three shots and finds his mark with two of them. The creature drops with a high pitched gurgling noise. The radio goes silent.

He lowers the gun, his hands still trembling but a feeling of elation is mixed in with his fear. _This town might be dangerous,_ he thinks, _but nothing I can't handle_. He continues his walk to the west door and enters. The hallway beyond is much the same as the second floor hall, though most of the lights are working, albeit very dim. He heads to his left towards the exit on the map, but a sound from room 101 stops him. He listens again. He cannot make out the nature of the sound so he goes to 101. The door is open and light comes out. He steps in and hears the noise again. It seems to be a gurgle, but it is deeper than the sound the spitters make and the radio remains quiet.

The lights are on in the living room and in the kitchenette. There is a couch, a coffee table, and a rug in the living room. What sends a chill down James's spine is the kitchenette. The door to the refrigerator is open and two legs stick out from beneath it. He walks over to the refrigerator, trying not to make any noise. He slips around the door and looks down.

The body is that of a dark haired man, probably in his thirties. He lies slumped against the inside of the refrigerator, the weight of his body has broken most of the shelves and James cannot feel any cool air emanating from inside. The man's nose, eyes, and forehead are a bloody mess, though not as bad as the man in 208 or the man in the tunnel. He is dressed in blue jeans and an olive colored polo shirt. Other than the broken refrigerator shelves, there is no sign of any struggle. Then James hears the noise again.

He is close enough now that he can identify the source and nature of the sound; someone, probably a man, is throwing up in the bathroom. The radio is silent, so he reasons that the person is human. The bathroom door is open and James stands in the doorway, the smell of bile reaches his nostrils. Inside the bathroom, another one of the Lost Souls is kneeling over the toilet, retching noisily.

It is man, probably in his twenties, wearing a blue baseball cap turned backwards, a blue and white striped t-shirt, cut-off jean shorts and dirty white sneakers. The man is obese and the t-shirt is a little too small causing his sickly pale skin to spill out from under it every time he leans his head into the toilet bowl.

"Hello?" James says, trying not to startle the man.

The man retches again and then says without looking up, "It wasn't me! I didn't do it!"

"Do what?"

"I didn't do anything. I, I swear!" He pants and then retches into the bowl again. His head comes up again, "He was like this when I got here…"

That, of course, is a lie.

"My, uh, my name is James. James Sunderland."

The man retches briefly again and then groans, "Um…Eddie."

"Eddie. Okay Eddie, who's the dead guy in the kitchen?"

"I didn't do it. I swear I didn't kill anybody."

Another lie, but then Eddie _is_ a liar.

"You're not friends with that red pyramid thing, are you?" James asks, perhaps picking up a trace of deceit.

"Red pyramid thing? I don't know what you're talking about. Honest. But I did see some weird-looking monsters. They scared the hell outta me, so I ran in here..."

This however, is true.

"Well, I guess this place isn't too safe either. What happened here anyway?"

"Uh, I, I told you I don't know. I'm not even from this town. I just, I just…" He trails off.

"You too, huh?" James says when he finishes. "Something brought you here, right?"

"Umm…" he groans and retches into the bowl again, "…yeah, you could say that."

Eddie is still sick and James senses that there is not much more to be gained from talking with him, "Well, whatever it is… I think you'd better get out of here soon."

Eddie groans again and then mumbles, "Yeah, you're right." He spits in the toilet bowl and looks up, "What about you?"

"I'll leave as soon as I'm done here." He starts to leave as Eddie begins to retch again but then stops and turns back to Eddie, "Eddie…Be careful."

Eddie looks up from the toilet bowl and says, "James, I…I, uh…you be careful too."

James nods and begins to leave the room when he sees a flash of silver on the coffee table. It is coin, almost like the one he found in the trash bag. Instead of the face of an old man though, is has a picture of a scaled serpent with the word SNAKE printed at the bottom. He briefly considers asking Eddie about the coin but decides against it. _Poor guy probably couldn't take anymore questions_, he thinks, pocketing the coin. Eddie's vomiting is the only sound he hears as he leaves the room.

He leaves room 101 and discovers, much to his agitation, that the exit door is locked. He swears again, and heads back up to the second floor fire escape. He puts the key in the knob and it turns with a satisfying click. He opens the door and feels the cool outside air. But his mouth drops open in disbelief at what he sees.

Instead of a metal frame stairway going down as he expected, he instead sees a building not more than six inches from the outside of the doorway. The wall of the building seems to be gray cement and directly across from the door is a large window, though the glass has broken away. James stares at it in stunned silence for a second and then checks his map of Silent Hill. _There shouldn't be another building here, not according to this map anyway,_ he thinks.

He looks at the window but can't see anything inside the room. He pauses and reloads the gun and slips the flashlight into his jacket pocket. _Well_, he thinks, _I've come this far…_ He pats himself down, making sure nothing is loose, and then stands in the doorway facing the window. And he jumps into it.

As They all do.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

He lands with a crunch on shards of glass spread across the floor. He straightens himself up and takes the flashlight out of his jacket and clips it back onto his breast pocket. It is difficult to tell the nature of the room he has landed in. There is a stained armchair with most of it upholstery torn away, leaving it almost skeletal. At one time the room was probably carpeted but that had been torn away long ago leaving nothing but a dirty brown floor that retained the slight stickiness of the adhesive. The walls had once been a light blue but the paint has almost completely peeled and some parts of the wall are actually broken with rotted insulation hanging out.

There is door in front of him and a bathroom to his left. He checks the bathroom. It is covered in dirt and dust and smells strongly of mildew. Every metal item in the room from the faucet in the sink to the shower head is covered with rust. The toilet is cracked and more rust stains streak down the sides of the bowl. The mirror has been shattered and small flecks of it lie in the sink. But there is nothing else of note.

He exits the main room and finds himself in a hallway almost identical to the halls of Woodside Apartments. Almost.

Woodside Apartments had appeared abandoned except for 208 and 101. This building however is beyond abandoned and better described as a ruin. Paint has peeled off of the walls and ceiling, the floor is rough and cracked. The three apartment doors he can see are all boarded up, one is marked "Hazard" in faded red letters. Beyond the range of his flashlight the hall is dark except for the red glow of an Exit sign in the distance.

Of more concern to James though, is the static of the radio. He takes out the gun and points it down the hall. There is no other place for the things to come at him from. He advances as slow as he can. The spitter comes shambling into the light about fifteen feet away. It makes its gurgling noise and the mouth opens but James is ready. He lines the sights and fires. His aim is still not good, but he is able to contain his fear enough to keep his hands from shaking. He hits the creature twice in the stomach and once in the head. It falls and lays still. The static from the radio fades, but does not silence. He advances further and the static grows louder. He can hear the gurgle in the dark but it is some distance ahead. He waits and listens. He can hear his shoes scrape the rough and dirty floor, but he cannot hear the foot steps of the creature. But the radio gets louder and he sees the twitching shape on the very outer edge of the light. He does not waste time and fires again. He drops this creature in two shots.

He lowers his gun and exhales with relief. Then he realizes the radio has not silenced, but instead emits a hiss and a popping sound. The mannequin bursts out of the darkness and is almost three feet away from him before he manages to fire his gun. Unlike the spitters, the mannequin has no discernible vital areas so he settles for trying to maim it, aiming at the hip joints. Because of its speed he is under more pressure and his aiming is not as good; two shots strike its upper legs and he fires three more times, emptying his clip, before it falls to the ground with that strange feminine cry. It tries to rise up again, but one knee is unable to bend and it cannot seem to get its left hip up off of the floor. It thrashes about trying to find some method of raising itself. Dark blood is oozing out of each of the bullet holes and its thrashing becomes slower and slower as the blood pools beneath it. James changes the magazine while he watches it die its slow death. Eventually, it gives one last twitch and lays still. The radio goes silent.

He watches the blood continue to drip from the creature while reloading the spent magazine. He collects himself and continues down to the Exit sign; his shoes now make a squelching sound from the blood of the creatures but it is the only noise that breaks the silence of the hall.

The door below the exit sign leads to a stairway. On the landing James sees a large, partly folded sheet of paper. He picks it up and unfolds it. It is a map marked BLUE CREEK APARTMENTS. He frowns and looks at his Silent Hill map. Blue Creek Apartments are marked as being next door to Woodside on Munson but not in line with the fire escape. _Did I get turned around when I was in Woodside?_ He wonders. He turns back to the Blue Creek Apartments map. _Doesn't matter, I can leave through the front entrance or,_ he thinks glumly, _if that's locked there's a side exit_.

He descends the stairs carefully. The stairs themselves are solid enough apart from the odd chip here and there, but the railing wobbles and probably cannot take his weight.

He gets to the first floor, there is no lobby on the map, and finds that the exit door has been boarded up. He goes into the hallway to try the side exit. Rooms 106, 107, and 108 are all boarded up, though curiously rooms 105 and 109 are not. The side exit is boarded up and marked DANGER. He grinds his teeth for a minute and then turns to try the second floor exit when he hears a creak. He pauses to listen but he is met only by silence. Then he notices light coming from room 109. The radio is silent but, mindful of what happened in room 307; James cautiously opens the door and peers into the room.

The apartment set-up appears to be similar to the ones in Woodside except the rooms are larger and the kitchenette is to the right of the door. Seeing nothing threatening he enters the apartment. The illumination comes from a ceiling light in the living room. Apart from the light though, the rest of the area is a ruin. The paint has completely fallen off of the walls and bits of plaster from the ceiling are scattered everywhere. The windows have been boarded up and the tattered remains of a couch sit in front of them. Everything in the kitchenette is either cracked, shattered, rusted, or a combination of all three and the floor in is strewn with glass. The bedroom door still has enough paint left on it to be considered white though; and the brass of the doorknob has not completely dulled.

He opens the door to the bedroom and hears a woman sigh. Inside, he finds it is not really a bedroom. To the right of the door is a small dresser with a lamp on it. The room is otherwise devoid of furniture except for a pristine mirror that covers the entire wall from ceiling to floor. Lying on her side in front of the mirror is Angela.

She looks dreamily at her reflection in the mirror and then turns her attention back to the black-handled knife she holds in her hand. The knife is large, not quite the size of a butcher knife, and has several dark red stains on it. She caresses the flat of the blade tenderly, almost lovingly, against the inside of her forearm.

"Angela…" He starts.

"Oh…" She says, looking up at him, "it's you…James?"

"Right. Listen Angela…I don't know what you're planning, but there's always another way." The words sound awkward and trite when he says them but he cannot think of anything better.

"Really?" She says sounding almost hopeful. She looks at his reflection in the mirror but seems disappointed by what she sees. She lowers her gaze back to the knife "But…you're the same as me." The hope has vanished from her voice. "It's easier just to run. Besides," she begins to caress her arms again with the knife, "it's what we deserve."

"No," he says, "I'm not like you. We're not like that."

"Why?" She looks at him, "Are you afraid?" She mocks him but then looks down again, "I, I'm sorry." She says with a trace of shame.

"It's okay…" He tries changing the subject, "Did you find your mother?"

"Not yet…" She stares at the knife again, "…she's not anywhere." Her mind seems focused elsewhere.

"Did she live in this apartment building?" He presses, trying to get her thoughts away from the knife.

"I don't know." She says absently.

"So all you know is that she lived in this town?"

She stops admiring the knife and looks up at him sharply, "What did you say?" She moves into a crouch and her eyes narrow in suspicion, "How do you know that?"

Her sudden change in attitude and the awareness that she still holds the knife puts James on the defensive. "W-well…I just figured…'cause this is where you're looking for her…" He stammers, "Well, how else would I know?"

She relaxes and lowers her head, "Yeah…" she says once again in a detached tone.

"Am I right?" He asks.

She ignores the question and stares blankly at the knife. "I'm so tired…"

"Is that's why you came to town?" He begins to wonder if maybe she got a letter as well.

She shakes her head, "I'm sorry. Did you…" her voice is timid, "Did you find the person you're looking for?"

He looks down at the floor, "No, not yet." He takes Mary's picture out of his wallet. "Her name's Mary." He holds the photo out for Angela to see. "She's my wife. I don't suppose you've seen her?" Angela looks at the photo and then shakes her head, "I'm sorry." She says apologetically.

"It's okay. She's dead anyway." He looks at photo before putting it away. "I don't know why I think she's here."

"She's dead!" She says with alarm.

"Don't worry. I'm not crazy." He reassures her, "At least I don't think so." He gives a half-hearted laugh.

Angela stands up and looks at the knife, "I've got to find my mama…" she says more to herself than to James. She starts to leave but James stops her.

"Wait. Shouldn't I go with you? This town's dangerous; I know what you meant back in the cemetery."

She cocks her head to one side "No, I'll be okay by myself." She pauses and then says in a quiet voice, "Besides, I'd just slow you down." She starts to leave again but James stops her with one last question, "What about that?" He points to the knife.

She draws her breath in sharply, as if she had not realized she is still holding it. "Will, will you hold it for me?" she asks; her voice small and childlike, "If I kept it…I don't know what I might do…"

"Sure. No problem." He steps forward with his hand out to accept the knife. But Angela steps back and screams. She points the knife at him, her eyes wild and staring at something James cannot see, "No! I'm sorry…" she pleads, "I've been bad…" She suddenly snaps out of it, gives the knife a look of disgust, drops it on the dresser and runs out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

The knife is stained with blood but otherwise appears to be new. It is too long to fit properly in any of James's pockets and would tear a hole in them anyway. He decides to hide it in the dresser, hoping that if Angela tries to come back for it she'll think he took it with him. He opens the top drawer and finds a note inside with a coin taped to it:

Dear Tim,

I had to go out so I left the stairway key with Uncle David.

Remember, he's staying in room 105 now.

Love,

Mom

He removes the coin from the note and examines it. It is a silver coin like the others; on it is a woman bound, gagged, and blindfolded. The word PRISONER is written below her. He puts the coin in his pocket along with the others and leaves the room.

Room 105 is located across the hall from the stairs. He enters cautiously, listening to for any sounds, but there is only silence. Like 109, the apartment is a ruin of crumbling ceiling, chipped walls, boarded windows and rusted metal. One thing stands out however. A large oak desk sits in the living and unlike its surroundings; it gleams with a fine varnish. The desk itself is bare except for a single large drawer. James walks over and tries to open the drawer but he finds it is locked. Puzzled, he examines the rest of the desk and finds on the side five coin slots with a slide, like that of a coin operated washing machine. Below them is an inscription in an archaic cursive-like font:

_Like coins in the hazy aether tossed_

_Our souls must by their sinful weight_

_Descend to Earth with lightness lost._

_Three shiny bright coins in five holes be_

_One end sits the Seducer of She._

_The wind from behind the woman doth play._

_Formless one, Null, lies furthest from they._

_The Old One beside the Serpent sits not._

'_Tis to the left of the Prisoner he doth rot._

He takes very little time in determining it is a riddle of sorts. He and Mary always liked riddles, puzzles, and quizzes. Indeed their first few dates had been "pub quiz" nights at various bars. Mary was particularly good at making her own riddles. On their first anniversary she had designed a scavenger hunt for him leaving using riddles she had made up the night before. And as for himself, he was the better of the two at actually solving riddles and puzzles. He never had trouble completing her scavenger hunts. Mary did have the upper hand when is came to quizzes however.

So despite the gloomy language of the inscription, he believes this is good sign that Mary is somewhere in this town.

_OK, I've got three coins_, he reasons, "_OLD MAN,""SNAKE," and "PRISONER." "Seducer of She"…must mean "SNAKE"; "SNAKE" goes at one of the ends._ He lays the Snake coin on top of the desk. _"The wind from behind the woman…" and "Formless one…" well 'Formless one' could also mean the snake…no…can't be 'Seducer' is definitely the snake, I'll come back to that verse. "The Old One" is obviously the "OLD MAN" and clearly he doesn't go near the Snake._ He places the Old Man coin on the desk away from the Snake coin. _And of course, the "PRISONER" will be on the Old Man's right_. He places the Prisoner coin next to the Old Man. _"Formless one…" that must be a blank space. "…lies furthest from they…" means the other end must be a blank. "The wind…"then is the other blank which is "behind" the Prisoner—to the right._ He spaces the coins on the desk accordingly._ OK. So Snake, empty, Old Man, Prisoner, empty._ He pauses._ No, that's not right_, he thinks, _'The wind' and 'Formless' can't be the same space. Maybe if—_, he puts the Snake coin on the other end and re-spaces the coins. _There. Empty, Old Man, Prisoner, empty, Snake. That works_.

He puts the coins into the slots accordingly and pushes the slide in. He hears the click of a latch and the drawer opens. _Bingo, _he thinks. The drawer contains a brass key with a paper tag marked SIDE STRS. He pockets the key with a feeling of jubilation and goes back to the second floor. He moves faster; solving the riddle has given him new hope and for first time since entering the town he is almost happy.

But I will not allow such feelings in the Damned to persist.

In his high spirits he does not notice the "Self Locking Door" sign on the second floor stairwell door, nor does he realize the scraping noises coming from inside the stairway are not from the rusty hinges of the door. He even leaves the gun in its holster. He goes through the door and stops short; his good feelings instantly evaporate like the mist that shrouds the town.

He has entered just in time to see the pyramid headed monster tear the legs off of a mannequin and hurl them to the ground in a bloody pile. James turns around and tries to open the door. Of course, it does not. He starts to make a run for the stairway but sees, to his horror, that the stairway has been filled with thick, oily water.

Time is up, James.

Pyramid Head turns around and James can feel it stare at him from beneath its faceless hood. It crouches down and picks up something large and dark. As Pyramid Head steps closer into the light James can see that the object is a black knife nearly five foot long and fifteen inches wide. Pyramid Head grips it by the handle but does not raise the blade; instead the monster drags the end along the ground behind him with a horrible metallic screeching sound. The dragging no doubt dulls the edge, but even if blunt, the sheer weight of the knife would crush James's skull like an egg.

James fumbles with his holster; panic has overtaken him again and he can't seem to get the strap off. Pyramid Head lifts the knife off of the ground and raises it over his head. James bolts to one side just as the knife comes crashing down onto the ground where he stood just a second before. The force of the blow seems to shake the floor and sends ripples through the water. James runs to the corner of the room, still trying to get the gun out of the holster. Pyramid Head slowly turns to face him and begins to walk towards the corner, dragging the knife behind with that screeching sound. James finally gets the gun out and points it at the monster. But the trigger won't budge. _Shit!_ He squeezes as hard as he can several times but it does not move. Pyramid Head raises the knife again and James runs to the right, the crashing sound of the knife not far behind him. He looks at his gun and realizes that in his rush to get the gun out, he had left the safety on. He flicks it off and points the gun at Pyramid Head and fires. Two shots hit the creature's torso but they are shrugged off. Three shots make a clanking noise when they hit the monster's head. James realizes that the hood must be some sort of helmet with a cloth covering, though the fact does nothing to help him as Pyramid Head is almost on him. Pyramid Head swings faster and James is close enough to feel the air it displaces as he moves out of the way. James rushes to the other side of the room but stumbles on one of the mannequin legs. He manages to keep a grip on his gun but the fall knocks the wind out of him.

He tries to suck down enough air to get him moving again, but it does not seem to come. He aims the gun again and empties the clip. Pyramid Head twitches slightly and there are clanking noises from bullets striking his hood but keeps his inexorable march towards James.

James catches enough air to crawl backwards and leans against the door. He drops the magazine from his gun and starts fumbling in his pockets for the other one. But again Pyramid Head is on him before he can get a hold of it. He rolls to his right, barely missing the knife. But Pyramid Head recovers this swing faster than the others and brings the knife down onto the floor again less than an inch from James nose. The force and proximity of the blow rattle James so much that he loses his grip on the gun and almost goes into a dead faint.

Enough for now.

There is a ringing in his ears, and Pyramid Head turns towards flooded stairs and slowly walks towards them, dragging his knife behind him. He reaches the stairs and descends them, completely unperturbed by the water. James sits up and watches as the point of the creature's head slowly disappears beneath the dark water without leaving a ripple behind it.

The water is still for what seems like a minute and then it starts to slowly drain out of the stairwell. James sits, getting his breath back. He retrieves the gun and puts the loaded magazine in. He then stands up and gets the empty clip and reloads it. He pats himself down to be sure he has not dropped anything and then looks down the stairwell. The stairs are damp, but not treacherous and there is no sign of Pyramid Head. He proceeds cautiously down the steps to the door marked with a red Exit sign at the bottom. He opens the door a crack and—seeing nothing outside—exits the building with a sigh of relief.

By now, the Damned have always begun to accept the reality of their situation and James is right on schedule. He does not consider how Angela could have left Blue Creek without going past Pyramid Head. Nor does he wonder how Eddie could have bypassed all the locked doors in Woodside to get to room 101. All that occupies his mind now is getting to Rosewater Park.

The mist has shown no signs of clearing and the street has narrowed to an alleyway. He checks his map to see where on Munson Street he has come out. He estimates that he is about two blocks up from the Katz Street intersection. And from here it is about a seven minute walk to Rosewater Park.

The encounter with Pyramid Head has left him badly shaken and he walks cautiously with the gun drawn. I too, began to feel a sense of unease as the mist begins to thin and a small voice humming "Pop Goes the Weasel" slightly off-key can be heard. With the radio silent, James heads closer to the sound with a relaxed grip on his gun. He comes to a fifteen foot brick wall separating an alley from Munson. Sitting on the wall, humming and reading a yellow slip of paper is the little girl from Woodside Apartments.

"You," he says, "you're the one that kicked the key away."

The girl smiles a mischievous little grin at him and says, "I don't know, maybe I did, maybe I didn't."

"What are you doing here anyway?"

"Playing."

"Playing? In a place like this?"

She frowns at him. "Huh?"

"Can't you see it's dangerous around here? You shouldn't be alone."

The girl gives him a puzzled look. "Are you blind or something?"

"Haven't you seen the monsters?"

"You're definitely blind." She concludes and turns back to the paper.

James controls his exasperation and tries to change the subject. "What's that you're reading?" The girl frowns at him again and says, "None of your business." She folds the paper and stands up. And then, though neither of them realizes it, she drops a verbal hand grenade:

"You didn't love Mary anyway." She taunts and scampers off.

"Wait!" He calls, "How do you know Mary?"

A connection. I regard it as a bad omen whenever an outsider has some connection with one of the Lost Souls. Though it is clear James does not know who the little girl is, she nonetheless provides him with a tangible link to the world outside of Silent Hill.

I, however, am not permitted to dwell on such thoughts. Besides, despite everything that has happened to him up to this point, James's punishment will not truly begin until he has reached Rosewater Park…


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The little girl is gone and the mist begins to close in again as James travels up Munson Street. His visibility is poor and he has almost gone through the stone archway that is the east entrance to Rosewater Park before he sees it. He stops for a minute and looks at the granite sign next to the archway which reads ROSEWATER PARK. He remembers it had been worn and faded the first time he and Mary had come here; but it had been replaced the last time they came here and now it looks worn and faded again.

He enters the park. There is less mist inside the park, the moisture being partially absorbed by the hedges and trees that populate the park. The outer edges of Rosewater Park are built with flagstones and contain benches and gazebos that offer views of Toluca Lake. The inner areas consists of grasses, benches, trees, rose gardens, concrete walkways, and the odd statue or two dedicated to various Silent Hill historical figures. Their "special place" was out at the very front of the park which, apart from a safety railing, had a completely unobstructed view of the lake. He makes his way through the park and down the short flight of flagstone stairs to the waterfront.

Apart from the fog, the waterfront is unchanged. There is a stainless steel safety railing and several coin operated binoculars. On a clear day, one can see all the way to the other side of Toluca Lake. But today the mist is too thick to see almost anything beyond the railing.

"Their" spot is near a bench on the western part of the waterfront. As he draws closer he begins to feel some apprehension in the pit of his stomach about what he might find there. _Mary is dead isn't she? What if I just find another dead body or one of those monsters waiting for me, or…what if I don't find anything at all? Will I have wasted a trip? _His worries are put to rest though as he comes to "their" bench and sees her.

She is leaning against the railing, staring out at the water. Her profile and the way she rests her chin on her hands is exactly the same as Mary.

"Mary!" He calls to her. She turns her head and even in the mist he can clearly see Mary's eyes looking back at him; but then she gives him a little lop-sided smile which, while attractive, tells him immediately that this woman is not his wife.

"No…you're not." He says, embarrassed.

"Do I look like your girlfriend?" She even sounds like Mary.

"No, my…my late wife." He walks closer to her and other differences become apparent. Her hair is bleached blond, although the roots are beginning to show; the very ends of her hair are dyed a light purple. She wears a short, burgundy blouse with only two buttons done, leaving her midriff bare. Around her neck is a black choker with a small gold circle. Her miniskirt is purple and leopard spotted. Dark stockings cover her legs and she wears elegant leather boots on her feet. Her eye shadow matches her blouse and her lipstick matches her skirt, but she otherwise has Mary's face. "I can't believe it…" He says, "You could be her twin…With your face and your voice…I…just your hair and clothes are different…"

"Well, my name's _Maria_, so you weren't too far off with the name. But I'm definitely not dead. I don't look dead, do I? Here—" she takes his hand and puts it on her chest, "—feel how warm I am?"

He lets his hand rest there long enough to confirm her assertion, but he quickly pulls away after a moment. "You're definitely not Mary!" He says, somewhat shocked by her boldness.

She laughs and gives him another lop-sided smile, "I told you, I'm Maria."

"Sorry, I was confused and…in the mist…I'm sorry." He turns around to leave.

"Where are you going?" She asks him.

"I'm looking for Mary, I thought she'd be here but she's not, so…" He shrugs his shoulders.

She furrows her brow, "Didn't you say she died?"

"Yeah, three years ago but…well, I got a letter from her. She said she was in our 'special place.'" The words sound stupid coming from his mouth.

"And that's here?"

"Yeah."

"Well, there's no one here but me. Are you sure you didn't have another 'special place'?"

James opens his mouth to say no but then stops himself. _Maybe Mary wasn't talking about the park,_ he thinks, _where else did we always go when we were in Silent Hill? Maybe…_

"Well, there's the hotel I guess, the one on the lake." He pauses. "Is it still there?"

"The Lakeview Hotel? Yeah it's still there." She flashes her lop-sided smile, "That hotel is a 'special place' for a lot couples." She raises an eyebrow suggestively.

James gives her a hard look and turns to leave again. "Wait," she says, "don't get so mad. I was just joking." She touches his shoulder, "I didn't realize it was still a sore point. I'm sorry."

He pauses. "That's alright. After three years…I guess most people just move on…"

"Well, let me make it up to you." She makes a show of clearing her throat in mock discomfort and says, "The hotel's the other way; you have to cross the bridge on Nathan."

James shakes his head ruefully. "Thanks." He says and changes direction. She falls in a step behind him and he turns to her with a frown. "You're coming with me?"

"Were you just going to leave me here?"

"No, but—"

"With all those…_things_ around?"

"No, I just—"

She bites her lip, "I'm all alone here…" her eyes start to moisten, "…everyone else is gone. I look like Mary don't I? Would you leave her here? You loved her right? Or," she sniffs, holding back a sob, "maybe you hated her—"

"Don't be ridiculous." He snaps.

"So…it's okay then?" She asks timidly.

"Yeah. Fine."

"Thank you James."

It never occurs to him until much, much later that he never once told her his name is James.

They walk in silence as they leave the park. James's surliness begins to subside and he tries to think of something to say in order to ease the tension. But something else breaks the silence before he can. Just as they are about to exit the park the radio starts to hiss and pop.

"Shit." He whispers, drawing the gun.

"What is it?" She asks.

"The radio only makes noise when I'm near a monster."

She draws in her breath sharply and whispers, "Where is it?"

"I don't know, it'll get louder when the thing gets nearer."

"I didn't see anything in the park earlier."

"It's probably outside the park; better let me go first."

He goes through the stone archway, sweeping the area with his gun. The radio gets louder but he cannot see anything in the fog. He inches out farther, still seeing nothing but hearing the radio get louder. Maria is close behind him.

Because he has been traveling alone and because he has the gun thus the greater threat, he assumes the creature will come after him first. But, instead Maria screams and James whirls around to see a mannequin knock her flat on the ground with kick to her stomach.

"Maria, stay down!" He shouts and aims the gun. This mannequin is harder to hit than the last one. While he has fired at moving mannequin before, this one is not running towards him, and in addition he must keep the barrel of the gun higher to avoid a stray shot hitting Maria. The mannequin twitches on his fourth shot and he grits his teeth realizing that the other three had missed. He continues firing; only his sixth, seventh, and tenth shots find their mark. But they serve their purpose and with a cry the mannequin drops to the ground in a heap of legs and lays still. The radio is silent.

"Are you alright?" He walks over to Maria who has sat back up and is rubbing her stomach.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Probably a little bruised, but nothing too bad. I do fifty sit-ups every morning," she gives him a weak lop-sided smile, "if it weren't for a chronic chocolate addiction, you'd be able to use my stomach for a washboard." Despite the joke her voice is shaky and her hand is trembling when James helps her up.

While she brushes herself off, James changes the magazine and reloads his empty clip. "I've got to get better aim; I keep using up a whole clip." He says more to himself than to Maria.

"Your aim seemed pretty good from where I was."

"Yeah but I don't exactly have an unlimited supply of bullets."

"Hmm." She says and rubs her stomach again. "There's a convenience store not far from here. It's next to the gas station on Nathan. The guy there sells bullets, even in the off season." She gives a lop-sided smile, "He's not supposed to but the locals firmly believe that hunting laws apply only to tourists."

"I thought you said everyone was gone."

"Oh, he's probably gone, but that doesn't mean he took all his bullets with him."

"Well then, lead on."

"Oh no. Now," she raises her eyebrows coquettishly, "normally I'll do whatever a handsome man tells me to do, but in this case you're the one with the gun and the monster detector." She gives him an impish wink.

Build the attraction.

"Okay, where to then?"

"It's just along Nathan; if we stick to the left side of the road we'll come across it in no time."

They cross the road and move west on Nathan. The mist has thickened again and total silence has enveloped the town again. James tries to break the silence, "So, do you live here."

"Not really, but I used to so I come back every now and then." She shakes her head, "But I think I should have taken a pass this time."

"Yeah, looks that way."

"You know, I—oh here's the place." She points to a building with glass front windows and a simple overhead sign that said "Liquor" in faded red letters.

"This place?" He looks at it skeptically.

"I know; bullets and booze: a perfect recipe for disaster. But I don't think he ever had any problems. C'mon." She takes him to the door which is locked with a push-button combination lock.

"Um…" He says tapping the lock.

"Not to worry," she responds and peers into the windows, "he used to forget a lot so he put the number where you could see it—if you knew where to look." She scans the interior and then says, "Ah-ha, six-five-three-nine-zero." James pushes the numbers in and the lock gives a small click and opens. He steps inside ready with the gun, but the radio stays silent.

There are no lights on in the store, but despite the mist there is enough ambient light from outside to see inside. The shelves contain the assortment of snacks, toiletries, magazines, and other items, though they haven't been restocked in a while.

"Hellooooo?" Maria calls, "Mr. Stevens? Anybody here?" There is no response. "Didn't think so." She says, sounding a little dismayed. "The bullets should be behind the counter; he usually hides them behind the lower cigarette shelf." She goes down one of the isles. "I need to find some aspirin; I've got a nasty hang-over."

James goes behind the counter and pulls out the cigarette cartons until he starts finding bullet packs. Most of the bullets seem to be for various types of rifles, but he does finally locate a fifty pack of the same kind of ammunition as he found in the shopping cart.

Maria comes around the counter with a bottle of aspirin and two bottles of "SH2O"—Silent Hill's local brand of bottled water. "Thirsty?" She asks, offering one of the bottles.

"You bet." He replies, accepting the water.

"Have you had anything to eat?"

"Yeah, a protein bar earlier and I've got another one tucked away."

"Well, I'm going to go in the stockroom and see if the refrigeration system is still working. There might be some sandwiches in it for you." A lop-sided smile and a wink.

"Sounds good." His stomach silently concurs. He tucks the new pack of bullets away and goes through the "Employees Only" door with Maria.

The stockroom is grey and almost empty except for three folding chairs, an unfilled water cooler, four wood pallets, and the dim fluorescent light on the ceiling; there are no boxed items nor are there any signs of recent deliveries. There is a small sealed door that is probably an entrance to a refrigeration room. A steady hum from beyond the door confirms that it is still active.

"Have a seat _monsieur_. Your meal will be ready in a moment." Maria says giving a mock curtsy and indicating one of the folding chairs. "Uh, thank you…madam?" He is not quite sure how to play along. Maria disappears into the refrigeration room.

He sits down, suddenly realizing just how long he has been on his feet for. He leans back in the chair, closes his eyes, and listens to Maria rummaging around in the refrigeration room. The last time he rested was in 208 and even then there had been a sense of foreboding; he had, after all, shared the apartment with a corpse. So he takes these minutes to truly relax.

He opens his eyes back up when he hears Maria close the refrigerator door. She comes around and sits in the chair opposite him, holding two plastic wrapped sandwiches. "What's your pleasure, roast beef on rye, or turkey and avocado on whole wheat?"

"Hmm…roast beef, please."

He unfolds his sandwich and waits politely for her to finish unfolding hers before biting in. Under other circumstances, he might have found the bread a little too hard and the roast beef a little too dry, but with no sustenance other than a protein bar, this is the best food he has tasted in a long time.

"So," Maria says between bites, "how's your sandwich?"

"Good." He grunts between bites and sips of water.

"Can I ask you something?" She says quietly.

He swallows a bite of sandwich and says, "What?"

"Well, you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but…now that we're out of the fog and all that…do I still look like your wife?"

He pauses and considers how to phrase his answer. The answer itself is an unequivocal yes. If anything, the resemblance is even stronger in the light, her skin is almost the exact shade as Mary's and, from what he can see of it now, Maria's natural hair color is the same as well. Her normal voice has a more sultry tone than Mary's ever did, but they sound almost alike when she makes a joke or alters her voice in one way or another.

"See for yourself." He takes the picture of Mary out of his wallet and hands it to her.

She looks at it and her eyes go wide. "Oh, my, God. It's my suburban housewife disguise."

He gives her a hard look and says, "She wasn't a 'suburban housewife' she was an administrator for the Make-A-Wish Foundation."

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean it that way. I just thought you'd been exaggerating the resemblance." She looks down at the photo again, "But change of clothes, make-up, hairstyle and _voila_! I'm Mary."

"Well, before I met her, Mary did have her punk-rock phase…so maybe with some hair-dye, more colorful miniskirts, brighter lipstick and _voila_! She's Maria."

She scrunches up her face in a show of mock puzzlement and says, "Sorry, I thought that might have been a joke coming out of your mouth. I was expecting a laugh or a chuckle or even a smile to ensue."

He does give a weak smile, but it quickly fades and he shakes his head. "Sorry, I haven't had much to smile about in the last three years."

"Ah, so you're out of practice. We'll see what we can do about that." She gives him another lop-sided smile.

"Hm." He gives a non-committal grunt and takes another bite of his sandwich.

"So," she says, looking back down at the photo, "she had her punk-rock phase did she?"

His swallows his bite of sandwich and takes a gulp of water, "So she said; I believed her and, according to her parents, once it ended she went to great lengths to destroy all photographic evidence. I happen to know she kept all her Nirvana albums though. And she never made any pretense that she wasn't an enormous X fan."

"Really?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact," he begins to reminisce, "We first met at in bar during quiz night; the theme was music and there was a whole category devoted to X. My team and hers were running neck and neck until I completely blanked on the name of their live album." He takes another drink of water, "So after the quiz, us runners-up had a drink with the champions and I couldn't believe the fresh-faced girl with the pink sorority sweater was the one who nailed all the X questions. She said she couldn't believe the serious-faced boy with the conservatively parted hair had gotten so many X questions right—although she did chide me for forgetting something as simple as the name of their live album. We talked for a bit more and then I got her number later that night."

"Aw, that's so sweet." She smiles warmly at him, and for the briefest instant, he is looking at Mary's smiling face.

Build the attraction.

He finishes his sandwich and water and says, "I think we'd better get moving." She nods and hands the photograph back to him. He carefully puts it back in his wallet and stands up.

"I don't suppose this guy keeps any other guns around? You could use something to defend yourself with."

"Well, number one: if he'd sold firearms as well as ammunition, Silent Hill PD would've busted him for sure. Number two: I've only ever fired a handgun once and even then my aim was so bad they banned me from the range." She turns and coughs.

"Okay then, is there anything else you need here?"

"Well, I'm taking some aspirin with me, but other than that, no."

"Right lets get moving."

They leave the shop, James in the lead with Maria close behind him. The streets are still thick with fog and silence, though there is now a reddish tinge to the mist, suggesting that twilight is approaching. They continue along Nathan Avenue at a quick pace; several times the radio makes noises but the sounds fade as they move quickly up the road.

Because of the fog, they don't realize the bridge is out until Maria almost trips over a broken cable. James edges his way along the street until he finds the broken asphalt of the drop-off.

"Damn it." He mutters. Then they both hear static from the radio. James crosses the street; his gun ready as the radio gets louder. He is almost to the other side when he makes out the form of the spitter. It is crouching down over what is by now a corpse. He doesn't bother waiting for it to get up. He fires three times and it falls dead. The radio is silent.

"Nice shooting." Maria says as they approach the corpse.

"Not really," he says, "I only hit it once; I just managed to catch it in the head."

"Well, they seemed like good shots." She gives a startled cry when she sees the corpse. It is that of a dark haired man dressed in black jeans and a grey sweater. His head lies in a puddle of blood and his face is unrecognizably blistered by thing's spittle.

"What happened to his face?" She asks in a quiet voice.

"Those things spit some kind of corrosive liquid. I got some on me the first time I met one." He shows her his chapped hand.

"Ouch; does it still hurt?"

"Not really, it washes off alright."

She peers at the face, "Did you hit him with one of your bullets?" She points to a large, bloody hole in the man's forehead. He frowns, "No that was done by a much bigger gun than this one. Also," his eyes narrow in puzzlement, "the skin around it is blistered. He must have been shot before the spitter found him—Oh God." About three feet from the corpse James's gaze catches the sight of the body of a dog. It is a German Shepard and both its eyes have been shot out with the same kind of gun as the man.

"Oh…" She clamps her hand around her mouth, "…poor doggy."

"Yeah." James is more concerned with the broken bridge than with the corpses though and he stares back at it trying to think of a way around it.

"What's that?" Maria asks.

James takes his gaze off the bridge and looks at Maria who is pointing to a folded piece of paper in the man's hand. He bends over to pick it up. It does not come out easily; it is sticky with blood and the man's hand is stiff with rigor mortis so James ends up tearing part of it.

He unfolds it and finds a map of Silent Hill much like his own. On it, Pete's Bowl-A-Rama on the corner of Nathan and Carroll is circled in red ink.

"Well?" Maria asks impatiently.

"It's a map," he says, "of Silent Hill. I think this guy was headed to the bowling alley on Carroll."

"Great." She says sarcastically. "Why would he want to go to a bowling alley?"

"I know one way to find out. Besides, I think we'll have to head back into the town anyway and find a street that bypasses the bridge.

She sighs, "Yeah, you're probably right."

They retrace their steps back down Nathan Avenue. They pass two spitters, but they are easily outrun. Pete's Bowl-A-Rama is only about a block from the liquor store they started out from so they are both somewhat out of breath when they arrive. The neon bowling pin signs are off, but the large double doors are unlocked.

They enter a small foyer. A faded sign welcomes them to Pete's Bowl-A-Rama; an arrow pointing left indicates "Café and Grill" and an arrow pointing right indicates "Bowling lanes(Exit only, enter through café)"

James opens the café door but Maria coughs and says, "I'll wait here; I hate bowling."

"I'm not going to play you know."

She just gives a small, lop-sided smile and coughs again, "Hurry back, okay?" He nods and goes through the door.

The café, like almost everything in this town, appears to be abandoned. The floor is black linoleum and has a thin layer of dust. The chairs have all been put up on the white tables; they too have a thin layer of dust covering them. There is a long, granite dining counter off to his left with black cushioned stools. The security cage has been brought down and a "Closed" sign hangs loosely. The far door is open and in the silence of the room he can hear voices from the lanes drifting in as he makes his way across the café.

"So what'd you do? Robbery? Murder?" It is the little girl from the apartments.

"Nah, nothing like that." The response is a lie from Eddie, the man from room 101.

This is not good. It is not common for the Lost Souls to run into one and other so often. It is even less common for outsiders to run into Them, but not unheard of. However, never before had an outsider run into two Lost Souls and nearly at the same time. And there is nothing I can do but watch and wait. But I am not bitter. There is no bitterness in death. Only silence and rest.

"Hah! Then you're just a gutless fatso." The little girl pronounces.

In a different time and a different place, speaking these words to Eddie would be fatal. But here in Silent Hill, the girl must come to no harm so he, his feelings hurt, says, "What'd you say that for?"

"I thought you said the cops were after you?"

"No, I just ran 'cause I was scared. I don't know what the cops are doing."

"But if you did something bad, why don't you just say you're sorry?" Eddie does not respond. "Well…" the little girl continues, "I guess I run away lots too. But if I say I'm sorry, people understand."

"It's no good. They wouldn't listen. And nobody would ever forgive me." There is a pause and then Eddie's voice speaks again. "Did you find the lady you're looking for…what's her name? …Mary?"

James accidentally bangs his foot on the door frame and the next few lines of conversation are lost to him.

He shakes his foot and then enters the bowling area. Eddie is seated at table eating a pizza. The fluorescent lights near the tables are on, but the lights in the lanes themselves and the score monitors are off. There is no sign of the little girl.

"Eddie?" James calls to him.

Eddie looks at him and says, "Oh…umm…" He chews a piece of pizza, "You're…"

"James. We met in the apartment building."

"Yeah, I remember but, uh…" he scratches his head.

"Are you alone here Eddie?"

"Uh, no…" He looks around and then makes a gesture towards the lanes.

James turns and sees the little girl in the pink dress stand near the exit door waving at Eddie, "Bye-bye!" she calls.

"Bye!" Eddie waves at her.

"Wait!" James calls after her, "Come back!" He turns to Eddie, "Eddie, let's go after her."

"Huh?" Eddie says mid-chew, "Laura? But why…?"

"Laura? Is that her name?"

"That's what she said." Eddie swallows and takes another bite of pizza.

Eddie's indifference agitates James. "Eddie, listen to me! This town is full of monsters! How can you sit down and eat pizza like that when a little girl's out running around all alone!"

Eddie shrugs, "She said she was fine by herself. Besides…" he grumbles, "…she said a fatso like me would just slow her down."

Eddie makes no show of getting up. _Fine, the hell with you, Eddie. I'll go after her myself_. James thinks to himself.

James runs down to the exit door. Going through it he finds himself in the entrance foyer. Maria is not there. James goes outside and Maria comes running up to him, panting.

"Did you see a little girl run through the foyer?"

Maria nods her head and says between breaths, "She was too fast for me. Do you want to go after her?"

"Yes."

"Okay," she collects her breath, "she went this way." And she leads him into a side alley next to Pete's. The alley gets narrower as the left wall becomes another building. The alley dead ends at a concrete wall and Mary points to the corner of the building on the left that is separated from the wall by about a foot of space. "She went through there."

The space is far too small for either he or Maria to enter. The wall is too high and too smooth to climb. "Is there another way through?" He asks.

She smiles brightly, "As a matter of fact…" She gestures for him to follow her and she goes to a metal door on the left hand side of the alley. She pulls open a zipper on her skirt that is neatly concealed by the leopard spots and pulls out a thin bronze key. She puts the key in the knob and it opens with a click.

"After you." She says, holding the door.

The door leads into a bar. It is dimly lit by a red neon sign that reads "Heaven's Night." At one end of the room is a small stage with a steel pole in the center with tables and chairs positioned around it. The bar itself is wooden and has probably seen better days with better clientele. The bottles behind it are all empty and the stool cushions are ripped and torn.

"Why do you have a key to this place?" He asks.

She just gives him a lop-sided smile, taps her nose and winks.

"Okay then." They make their way to the opposite side of the room where a grey door leads out to Carroll Street.

Because of the outsider, the mist outside is much thinner and they are able to make out the shape of the little girl running down the street on their right.

They both run after her and while James is able to gain a little ground on her, he is unable to maintain his pace and he quickly tires. But he is able to keep her in his sight long enough to see her run into a large white building.

He stops and tries to get his breath back while he waits for Maria to catch up. "She went in there," he points to the building, "do you know what's there?" Maria nods but it takes her several breaths and a few coughs before she is able to speak.

"That's, um…" she takes another breath, "Brookhaven…Hospital." She starts coughing again.

_Why would a little girl go into a hospital_? He wonders. But then he remembers what Eddie said to her in the bowling alley. _"Did you find the lady you're looking for…what's her name?…Mary?"_ _Maybe Laura knows where Mary is_…

"Are you okay?" He asks Maria when she finishes coughing.

"Yeah, fine," she says clearing her throat, "plenty of sit-ups but no jogging."

"You okay to go in the hospital?" He asks.

"As long as you don't try to get me admitted." She says with her lop-sided smile.

"No promises." He says and she punches him playfully in the arm.

Build the attraction.

They walk to the hospital entrance. Normally the doors are automatic, but they have to be pulled open now, though hardly any effort is involved. And they enter the lobby of Brookhaven Hospital, leaving the slowly darkening mist. As James checks the hallway, Maria silently engages the lock.

Time is meaningless to the Damned when They enter Silent Hill. Twilight does not come with the changing of the hours but simply heralds the darkness of the night. It is out of darkness that Their nightmares truly take hold…


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The hospital is dark. The floors and walls are white so they get slightly better reflection from the flashlight, but nevertheless James feels a sense of foreboding about the place. _It's just my own prejudices,_ he assures himself, _I've gotten a lot of bad memories at hospitals._

"Do you know your way around this place?" He asks Maria.

She shakes her head, "Sorry, I always went to Alchemilla."

"All right, let's find the directory."

"Over here." She points to a door marked "Reception".

The reception room consists of a large desk on the left with several computer monitors, a small lamp, and papers scattered all over it. On the right are several waiting chairs and magazines. Behind the desk is a door marked "Staff Only". On the far wall is a bulletin board with several notices on colored paper and—most importantly—a hospital map.

James goes over to the bulletin board and examines the notices and the map while Maria starts searching the desk. The notices seem to be general health messages, "Smoking hurts everyone," "Donate blood today," "Mammograms save lives." The map proves to be more helpful. The hospital has three floors and roof access. The west wing on each of the floors seems to be dedicated mostly to patient rooms, while the east wing mostly contains administrative, supply,surgery, staff, and lounge rooms. There is a garden and pool on the first floor as well. He carefully pulls the tacks out of the map and takes it down.

He turns back to Maria, "Find anything interesting?"

"No, the computers won't turn on, and all the admittance forms I've looked at seem to be blank. There're a few patient files I haven't looked at yet though." She points to a stack of three manila folders.

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"Anything about a 'Mary' being here."

"Okay," _Should've thought of that myself,_ he thinks. He picks up one of the files and something occurs to him, "Have you seen anything about a 'Laura'?"

"No," she tilts her head to one side, "Who's Laura?"

"It's the little girl's name." He says as he thumbs through a folder marked ARTHUR OSWALD. The folder is filled mostly with medical charts that he cannot make sense of, but he does find a page of the psychiatrist's notes:

**Patient Number:** 01141973

**Name:** Arthur Oswald

**Assessment:** Patient has attempted suicide three times in the past. Reasons unknown. Otherwise model patient. Follows staff orders and participates in treatment sessions. Close observation still required due to pattern of suicide attempts.

**Treatment:** Antidepressants are ineffective—discontinue. Lengthen therapy sessions. Something has to be bothering him.

He puts the folder down and picks up another labeled JONATHAN SIMPSON. More meaningless charts and another psychiatrist evaluation:

**Patient Number: **07131975

**Name: **Jonathan Simpson

**Assessment: **Disorder appears rooted in belief that he is responsible for his daughter's death. Symptoms suggest minor psychotic break-down. Paranoid delusions though usually calm. Tendency to become violent when agitated.

**Treatment: **Maintain antidepressants at current levels. Increase after six weeks if condition does not improve. Continue therapy sessions.

James puts aside Arthur's folder and picks up the last folder, which is labeled EARL DONOVAN. Earl's folder is much thicker than the others; in addition to the medical charts there are numerous police reports and judicial orders. After trying to get through some of the legal language he skips to the psychiatric report:

**Patient Number: **04091977

**Name:** Earl Donovan

**Assessment: **Strong persecution complex with extreme violent tendencies. Numerous arrests for assault, assault with a deadly weapon, battery, and vandalism. Hospitalized by court order after conviction for voluntary manslaughter and assaulting an officer. Isolated in Special Treatment room 3.

**Treatment: **Maintain isolation and sedatives. Therapy sessions TBD. CT and MRI scans needed to check for tumors, lesions or abnormalities in amygdala region. Maximum security precautions should be observed at all times.

"Hmm," he says, "these three are all mental patients."

"Funny," Maria says,"so are all the ones I've looked at."

"Was this a mental hospital?"

"I really don't know. Anyway, there's nothing about Mary or Laura in here."

"Damn. Well," he opens the map of the hospital, "where would a little girl go in an empty dark hospital?"

"Children's wing, maybe?"

James looks at the map and shakes his head, "It doesn't have a children's wing on the map."

"Well, if she's looking for Mary, she might be going through the patient rooms."

"Right. Let's go then." He folds the map back up.

"Hang on, we should check the staff room first—they don't always leave all the files on the desk." Maria says, going to the "Staff Only" door.

James follows her into the room. There are two shelves lined with files of all shapes and sizes. There is a small table, two chairs and a wood cabinet. A sheet of paper lies on the table. The files on the shelves are arranged by alphabet, but a quick glance at their dates tells James that there are no recent records on the shelf. Maria has begun to rummage through the cabinet; he can hear bottles clanking around inside.

He goes over to the table and picks up the sheet of paper. It is a typed memo from one of the doctors. He sits down to read it.

**Re:** Patient 07131975

The potential for this illness exists in all people and, under the right circumstances, any man or woman would be driven, like him, to the "other side." The "other side" may not be the best way to phrase it. After all there is no wall between here and there. It lies on the borders where reality and unreality intersect. It is a place both close and distant. Some say it is not even an illness. I cannot agree with them. I am a doctor, not a philosopher, or even a psychiatrist. But sometimes I have to ask myself "why?" It's true that to us his imaginings are nothing but the inventions of a busy mind. But to him, there simply is no other reality. Furthermore, he is happy there.

So "why" in the name of healing must we drag him painfully into the world of our own reality?

Scribbled in handwriting below the typed text is a small note:

_How the hell does Jonathan keep getting a hold of that box?_

"Find something?" Maria startles him by putting her hand on his shoulder.

"No, just some doctor waxing philosophical about one of the patients."

"Well, I've got something for you." she says, holding a small, white squeezable tube, "Hold out your hand—the one the thing spat on."

James, though puzzled, offers his hand. Maria squeezes some white cream out of the tube and begins to rub it onto the rough, reddened part of his hand. The cream is cool to the touch, but Maria's hands are warm and smooth as they gently massage the cream into his skin.

"What is that?" He asks, slightly distracted by the feel of Maria's hands.

"Prescription strength hydrocortisone—a whopping 2 percent solution." She grins, "When I was a camp counselor there was a boy who'd have his rashes treated with this stuff."

"Doesn't feel like it's doing anything."

"Really?" She stops and raises an eyebrow, "Try feeling it now." He begins to put his other hand on the affected area when he suddenly realizes there is no affected area. The skin of his is smooth again and its natural color is slowly coming back. Only faint, oily traces of the cream mark the spot where the creature had sprayed. His expression betrays his amazement and Maria smirks and says, "Nice, huh?" She gives his hand a warm squeeze.

"Yeah." He says, unconsciously squeezing back.

Build the attraction.

"Okay," he says, "let's go."

They exit the reception area. The hospital is quiet and—like Woodside Apartments—has an abandoned look to it. The floor is dusty, the waste cans and syringe disposal trays are empty. James moves cautiously, the gun drawn but with the safety on—he _is_ looking for a little girl after all. The doors on the first floor are all locked, including the one to the patient wing. The east elevator appears to be stuck. But the stairway door is open and he proceeds to the second floor with Maria following him.

The stairs are tiled and sheathed with checkered rubber to prevent slipping. The hand rails are stainless steel and solid. The second floor door opens with a small creak. The faint smell of ammonia hits James. There was a time when the smell made him think of clean, well lighted places such as first class hotel rooms and freshly detailed sport cars. But ever since Mary's hospitalization it has become the reek of sickness and death.

James pulls the map out to locate the door to the patient wing, but before he can do so the radio emits static. The static has more of a scratching sound to it and is accompanied by a high pitch whine. He quickly puts the map away, takes out the gun and flicks the safety off.

The door in front of him is clear. He turns to his left. The hall splits, going straight and also branching to the left. There is nothing ahead of him down the straight hall. The smell of iodine touches his nostrils. He turns to the left hall, advances two steps and then sees it. Maria clamps her hand over her mouth to muffle her scream.

It could have been human once upon a time. Its thinness gives it an illusion of height, though it cannot be more than five feet and eight inches tall. It is dressed in rags that had once been a nurse's uniform though the only current indicator is the faded red cross on the dirty hat that sits on its skull. Its face is shriveled, covered in mostly in dry, loose hanging skin. It cheekbones protrude from underneath the skin and a withered button nose lies at the center of its face. It eyes are empty black sockets that fixate themselves on James. Its lips have rotted away leaving the teeth exposed in what is more a silent snarl than a skeleton's grin. Its limbs are all humanoid though devoid of skin. Instead its bones are covered by dried remnants of tendon and muscle. Its left shoulder droops below its right, weighed down by the large, rusty metal pipe in its left hand. The iodine smell is thick around the creature, like the smell of old bloody bandages.

Though its vacant eyes remain fixated on James its head shakes and twitches rapidly as if it were trying to examine him with its horrid stare from as many different angles as possible.

He hesitates, in part because the creature has not moved and in part because he senses something familiar about it, though he does not lower his gun.

The attack itself comes quickly. The creature lunges at James, swinging the pipe in an overhead blow. But the move is badly telegraphed. James sees the creature cock its left shoulder back while shifting its weight onto its left leg. He jumps back just out of range of the creature's blow.

His hesitation vanishes and he fires the gun. Aim is not issue. The creature is so close that the two shots to its face leave large powder burns. But the creature seems unhindered by the shots and begins to cock its shoulder again for another strike. He shoots it in the arm; a tendon in the elbow snaps and it drops its arm, though it maintains its grip on the pipe. He puts another round in its head. No response. He puts another in its chest and he hears it make a hollow sigh.

It tries to make another swing at him but it cannot seem to muster the strength to raise the pipe. He is about to fire another shot but the creature drops the pipe with a rusty clang and sinks to its knees. Its eye sockets stare up at him then its head twitches twice and it collapses on the ground. Despite its desiccated look, thick black blood begins to ooze out from beneath it.

James breathes a sigh of relief, but it is short lived as the radio is not quiet. He advances down the hall, but after five paces the radio's volume fades and he runs into a dead end.

"Maria!" He calls, realizing that it must be behind him coming from the hall he had branched away from.

"I can't see anything!" She says, frightened. He turns to head back down the hall and Maria moves behind him.

He arrives at the intersection just in time to see it turn the corner. Another nurse. Despite the constant twitch and shake of its head, its gait is remarkably sturdy and balanced. It trains its hollow gaze on him and again there is a strange familiarity about it that makes him hesitate. But he does not let his hesitation last for long and begins shooting before it makes any aggressive moves. He fires the remaining shots in his clip. Though the spread is large, he manages to hit with every one them and the creature stumbles and collapses to the floor. The radio goes silent.

He exhales deeply, switches the magazine and begins to reload the spent clip, "You okay?" he asks Maria as he works. Maria nods, though her face is pale. He finishes loading the clip and puts it away. He rubs his fingers together; they are beginning to feel raw from pressing bullets into magazines.

He takes out the map again and finds that the door to the patient wing is the one across from the stairway. The door is metal and locked with a combination lock.

"Damn." He consults the map again. The Nurse's Station and men and women's locker rooms are located in the hallway where he encountered the first nurse. _There might be a combination in one of them_, he thinks.

He goes back to the hallway, careful to avoid stepping in the blood of the nurse and breathing out of his mouth to avoid the iodine smell. The Nurse's Station is locked. The men's locker room contains several lab coats, a table and a mirror but no papers or notices and none of the lockers are unlocked. He mutters a curse and leaves.

"Better let me go in first," says Maria with a lop-sided smile when they get to the door of the women's locker room, "the other girls might not like it when you go barging in without a teacher's note."

With the nurse's blood and vacant-eyed visage still fresh in his mind, he does not find this funny. He ignores her comment and opens the door. The women's locker room is nearly identical to the men's except the lab coats are much more neatly arranged and there is a stuffed teddy bear on the table.

He reaches out to pick up the bear on the table but he feels a prick in his palm when his hand closes around the stomach.

"Ouch!" He says.

"You okay? What happened?" Maria asks.

"I'm fine, something pricked me." He carefully examines the bear for the source of the pain.

Something on the bear's side gives off a small flash of silver in the light. He looks at it closer and finds it is the tip of a small needle. He pulls on it and with a bit of tugging the rest of it emerges. It is a bent sewing needle with a small eye. He is about to fling it on the ground when Maria stops him.

"Wait," she says, taking the needle from him, "I want to see something." She goes over to one of the lockers and looks at the lock intently. "Bring the flashlight closer."

He walks over, "Don't tell me you know how to pick locks."

"No," she says, "but I happen to know that you can open this kind of locker with a coat hanger, and I think I can manage with a bent needle." Rather than inserting the needle into the lock, she puts it into the small crack between the edge of the door and the side of the locker frame. She wiggles it a little and then pulls up on it and the latch clicks and the locker door opens.

"How'd you do that?" He asks.

She smirks, "These kinds of lockers were designed with obnoxious school children in mind." She points at the inside of the door, "See that metal bar? It's made so that you can lift it and open the door from the inside. That way, if some big bully shuts you inside your locker, you can just lift the bar up and let yourself out instead of crying in the dark until the principal gets you out with a pair of bolt cutters in front of the whole school."

"I see."

The locker is empty, so Maria—using the bent needle—opens the rest of them. For the most part they are all empty. Some contain bits of clothing. One has crayon drawing of a bear, but nothing else of interest.

"Well," Maria sighs, "now that I have a locker key…" She gestures in the general direction of the men's locker room.

They go back to the men's room and Maria begins to open lockers. They all give off a musky odor when opened. The first one is empty. The second one is not. Maria moves on opening the rest as James stops and examines the shotgun propped up on the inside of the locker. He has fired a shotgun once before with his father-in-law. He cannot remember the kind it was, but this one seems smaller and does not have a pistol grip like his father-in-law's did.

"What'cha got there?" Maria says, coming from behind him and looking at the shotgun with her chin resting on his shoulder. The temptation to let her stay is stronger than the urge to shrug her off and the smell of her perfume—not unlike Mary's, which always reminded him of orange sherbet—is a welcome change from the ammonia smell of the hospital and the musky smell of the lockers.

"Shotgun," he says, "probably for trouble with the patients. One of the files I read was about a guy who had to be kept in isolation."

"Yikes." She looks as the gun and then frowns, "let me see that box." She points to a shotgun shell box inside the locker. He sets the shotgun down and hands the box to her. She examines it briefly, frowns again, takes out one of the shells, looks at it and then shakes her head.

"No," she says, "I think you're wrong about this shotgun being for patients. I think it was more of an after-hours hobby. This ammunition is birdshot, probably for hunting ducks."

"How do you know that?"

"Guy I dated used to go duck hunting. Convinced me to go along a couple of times." She gives a lop-sided smile, "I wasn't too bad actually—at least when it came to spotting them."

"Will it still shoot?"

"Oh, it'll shoot just fine, but it isn't going to be anywhere nearly as strong as your handgun." She turns her head and coughs

"Damn." He moves on to search the other lockers. Most are empty; a few contain minor articles of clothing and assorted personal items. In locker number nine, James finds what he has been looking for; a typed memo reads:

**Re:** Door combinations.

Due to recent events the combinations for the 2nd and 3rd floor patient wings have been changed again. 2nd floor is 7335; 3rd floor is 1328. The 1st floor will remain swipe card. I would like to remind staff that these frequent changes would be unnecessary if Mr. Simpson could be better contained within his room.

Thank you for your cooperation,

Bruce R. Murray

Director of Hospital Security

Beneath the typing, in brisk handwriting:

**_P.S. This means YOU Fitzgerald!_**

He folds the note and puts it in his pocket. He turns to leave and sees Maria loading the shotgun. "I thought you said that it wasn't going to be very strong?"

"It's not," she says, pumping it, "but it's better than nothing."

"Wait, you're taking it? I thought you said your aim was bad."

"I said my aim was bad with _handguns_, I'm okay with shotguns—well when they're loaded with birdshot anyway." She looks at herself in the mirror and poses with the shotgun a few times. "Besides, you don't need good aim to use a shotgun; the spray'll hit anything at close range. Granted, the birdshot probably won't hurt those nurses very much, but if we encounter any evil pigeons, their asses will be _mine_." She frowns at her reflection, "My stomach's bruising." She shakes her head and closes another button to cover it,"Alone in a room with a strapping young man," she gives a mock sigh, "covering my skin is the exact opposite of what I shouldbe doing." She raises an eyebrow at him. He feels his pulse briefly quicken, but he ignores her comment.

Build the attraction.

James takes some spare shotgun shells for her and they both leave the room and proceed to the patient wing.

The second floor patient wing contains six double-bed rooms. Each room has an emergency alarm panel next to the door. They are marked with numbers and the letter M. M1 is locked. M2 opens. The room has a marble linoleum floor. The beds are standard adjustable hospital beds and are situated near power outlets on either side of the room. There are, however, no intravenous set-ups or heart monitors nor are there any charts on the beds or anything to suggest that the room has been in recent use.

M3 is the same; the radio begins to emit a high pitched whine when he opens the door to M4 and the stench of iodine hits nostrils like asudden gust of wind. He sees the nurse straight ahead of him, between the two beds. It black eyes focus on him as its head rolls and twitches. He raises the gun but suddenly catches a glimpse of rust in the corner of his eye. He ducks and feels the wind rustle his hair as the pipe swings over his head and smashes into the door frame.

"Stay down!" Maria shouts. She points the shotgun barrel at the second nurse's head and fires it point blank. The blast is deafening at such a close range and everything seems muted for a moment. The birdshot tears away the skin and remaining flesh on the nurse's face and knocks it jaw askew. The silent snarl turns into a crooked grin as its face becomes a death's head with nothing but bone, a now-tattered hat, and a few wisps of what was once curly hair.

The damage, however, is purely superficially and the grin seems to reflect contempt for the feebleness of the attack. Its gaze fixes on Maria but James starts shooting from his crouching position before it can bring the pipe to bear again; once in the shoulder to stop it from using the pipe, twice in the head, and once in the chest. The nurse drops the pipe but James, conscious of the other nurse, does not wait for it to fall. He rises from his crouch and slams the nurse with his shoulder. The blow knocks it back into the other nurse who is caught mid-swing.

But the nurse's body is lighter than he expects and his momentum carries him forward onto the floor, dropping the gun. He quickly rolls to his right, but he cannot find it. Maria, temporarily in the dark when James falls forward, does not see that the nurse is coming after her until James has stood back up.

She gives a cry but keeps her head enough to fire the shotgun. But she does not brace herself properly and she loses her balance and falls backwards, dropping the shotgun. The shotgun blast tears flesh from one side of the nurse's face, but it is unperturbed and lunges at Maria with the pipe raised.

James abandons his search for the gun and grabs the nurse's arm. Despite the nurse's weight, its arm is surprisingly strong and while he keeps it from smashing Maria with the pipe, he cannot seem to overpower it. He changes his tactics and uses his other hand to grab it around the waist and lifts it off the floor and throws it into the wall like a rag doll.

It is then that he glimpses something shiny and black on the floor.

The gun.

He moves quickly to get it. The nurse rises to its feet, its twitching head focusing on James. He gets to the gun, the nurse cocks its shoulder back. He fires two shots—and then the gun jams.

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_ His mind screams at him. He tries to move the slide of the gun. Nothing. And then the nurse hits him.

The blow has lost some momentum from the previous shots, but his left arm still goes numb when the nurse thrusts the pipe into it, causing him to drop the gun again. The nurse swings again, but James sees it coming and backs himself away before it hits him. And he promptly stumbles over the body of the first nurse.

The iodine smell of the nurse almost overwhelms him and as he picks himself up he puts his hand right in a puddle of the nurse's blood. It is cold, thick, and sticky.

"James!" He hears Maria's scream and realizes the nurse has turned away from him and has advanced on her. With his left arm still numb he does not try to grapple with the nurse. Instead his eyes spot the fallen nurse's pipe and he grabs it with his right hand. It is heavier than he expects and it takes more effort to lift it with only one hand. He springs back up and hits the nurse with an overhead blow as it stands ready to strike Maria with its shoulder cocked back.

The pipe crashes down on the nurse's head and it loses its balance from the weight of its own pipe and falls backward. James is bringing down a second strike with the pipe before the nurse even hits the ground. He does not remember how many more times he hits the nurse but he does not stop until he feels the pipe striking the floor beneath the nurse's pulverized chest and realizes the radio is silent.

He drops the pipe and then looks towards Maria, who is sitting up on her elbows. "You all right?"

She nods and coughs. She looks at the bodies of the nurses and their rusty pipes, "I think I picked a bad year to not get my tetanus booster."

James rubs his arm until he can feel the fingers on it start to wiggle. He then walks over to where the gun lies and picks it up. He drops the magazine and tries to work the slide, "Do you always make jokes after near death experiences?" He asks irritably.

"No, only when said experiences involve zombie nurses. Zombie _doctors_—eek! Undead pit bulls—I want my mommy! But zombie nurses—ha-hah!" She looks at the body of one of the nurses lying in its own blood, "'I know you don't allow strangers in the hospital when visiting hours are over, but is this really necessary?'" Shejokes to the body.

The slide won't move. His irritation grows. "Yeah, that's fucking hilarious."

"You don't have to be nasty."

_That does it!_ His mind explodes, "Well _excuse_ me! My wife died three years ago, I've had nightmares ever since. I go to one of the most beautiful towns in the world and find it covered in mist and full of monsters that have been trying to kill me ever since I arrived; somewhere in this hospital is a little girl roaming the halls who knows _something_ about my wife but doesn't know _anything_ about how dangerous this place is; I just got into a wrestling match with a nurse who very nearly smashed _both_ our heads open and the only fucking weapon I have has just jammed up on me! So pardon me if I'm not feeling humorous and am just a little bit '_nasty'_!"

The corners of her mouth tighten and her eyes start to water, but the voice that comes out of her is quiet fury, "Listen James, I know all that and I don't mean to demean it, but you are _not_ the only one with problems. In case you haven't noticed, _I'm_ in this town too; everyone I know is gone and before you came I was _also_ was being attacked by monsters, only _I_ didn't even have a gun! Even now, with you and with the shotgun, it's all I can do to keep from pissing myself every time that radio makes a fucking sound and if don't keep making jokes I might very well do just that and I certainly don't want that happening because I don't have any clean pairs of undies and whatever you may think about me, I _do not_ go commando until the third date!" Her eyes are wild with rage.

Despite the blood on the floor and on his hands, the smell of iodine in the air, his presence in Silent Hill, and Mary's death, James starts to laugh.

"That's _not_ funny!" Maria snarls, but this just makes James laugh harder. "Well…maybe a little bit." She concedes. James continues to laugh, and Maria finally cracks and starts a giggle which turns into a laugh. "Okay, it's pretty funny." She says finally says, wiping her eyes.

Build the attraction.

James holsters the gun and says with a smile, "C'mon, the hallway's clear, let's check the bathrooms and the examination room; one of them'll probably have a sink and I really need to wash up."

"Right," She says, picking up the shotgun, "can you hand me two shotgun shells? I should reload this before we go."

While Maria reloads, James checks the room but, apart from the two nurses, the room is as empty as M3.

"All set." Maria says when she finishes loading the shotgun, "If the gun's not working, do you want to take one of the pipes?"

He considers this but then says, "No, they're heavy and covered in rust; I'm lucky I didn't cut my hand."

Maria nods and they enter the silent hallway. The bathrooms are locked, but the knob to Examination Room 3 turns. James cautiously cracks the door open, ready to slam it shut if he hears the radio make any noise. But it does not and he enters the room.

Like the patient rooms, the floor is marble linoleum and the walls are white. A cushioned examination table lies at angle on the right side of the room. On the left side is a sink with a medicine cabinet above it and a white desk next to it. On top of the desk is a black typewriter with sheets of carbon paper stacked next to it and a dim lamp. James walks over to the sink and tests the faucet. The pressure is not strong, but it is good enough. He begins washing his hands and face. Maria begins examining the desk.

His hands, parts of his face and arms are covered in the nurse's blood. Rust from the pipe has rubbed off on his palms. The rust washes off easily. The blood is sticky but it comes off with enough soap. Parts of his jacket are stained but the dark coloring hides it well. He finds a sterile cloth in the medicine cabinet and uses them to dry off. Feeling somewhat refreshed, he then turns his attention to the gun.

Blood has gotten onto it from his earlier attempts to loosen the slide. He uses the cloth to scrub it away. He tries to work the slide again but has no luck. He drops the magazine and begins to disassemble the gun. Finally the slide comes off. He examines it and while he cannot find any obvious source of the jam, he cleans the tracks and reassembles it. He dry fires the gun a few times and, satisfied that it is in working order again, reloads the clip, puts it in the gun, and chambers a round.

He turns to Maria who has been looking at the papers. "Did you fix it?" She asks.

"Yeah. Find anything?" He asks.

"No, they're all blank for the most part, although there was this one in the type writer." She hands him a yellow sheet with sloppily typed text:

i know it the sec ret i ll give them

som ething to deal with this demon

shelter is o f no use a nymore he is

my instrment he must follow my

orders yes the box will be useless

now i must not forge t it 2326

thats good he is the lowest now

i too will be free and he will serve

me i am genius no one can stop

me one can stop me no one can

stop me can stop can stop no no

He frowns at it, "Looks like one of the patients wrote it."

"Yeah, I couldn't make sense of it either."

"Two-three-two-six…" He whispers to himself, "…Hmm." He folds the paper and puts it in his pocket.

"Taking it with you?"

"Yeah. I think that number might be a combination to something."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think they let patients tinker around with typewriters on their own, so he probably got in here without permission. Maybe it was that Simpson guy, the other memo said he kept escaping."

Maria nods and says, "Where to now?"

"Third floor."

They make their way up to the third floor without incident. According to map the east wing contains a day room, the Special Treatment Rooms, and a store room. All are locked.

He enters the combination for the door into the patient's wing and steps inside. The radio is silent and he sees nothing in the halls. The rooms on this floor are single bed and much smaller. Like the second floor, the rooms have emergency alarm panels next to the doors and are numbered with the letter 'S'.

S1 and S2 are locked. S3 opens. The room is lit by a small light in the ceiling. It contains one bed, a window with bars, and a small dresser. Atop the dresser is a silver key. James walks over to the key, he hears Maria coughing over his shoulder.

The key is marked ROOF. He puts it in his pocket and turns to leave but Maria, who has taken a seat on the bed, stops him.

"James, wait. I'm tired and…" she lays the shotgun on her lap and rubs her forehead, "…I think that aspirin's wearing off."

"You should rest."

"Yeah." She puts the shotgun aside and lies down on the bed, "Mmm, comfy."

"You going to be okay?"

"I'll be fine." She coughs, "Does the door lock?"

He checks. "Yes, it does."

"Well, go ahead without me, I've got the shotgun and you can lock the door."

"I don't mind waiting."

"You need to find Laura as soon as possible. I'll slow you down." She coughs again. "I _really_ picked a bad day to have a hang-over. Here," she hands him the bent needle, "in case you need to open anymore lockers." She gives him a wan lop-sided smile.

He takes the needle and carefully puts it in his jacket. "I'm going to leave the shotgun shells here." He puts them on the desk.

"Fine, thanks." Her voice starts to get drowsy. "James…can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"What if…" she yawns, "…what if you can't find Mary? What will you do?"

His mind refuses to contemplate that possibility so he simply shrugs it off. "I haven't really thought about it."

She closes her eyes and waves her hand lazily, "Never mind, it's not important. Go find Laura."

James leaves, locking the door behind him. He continues down the hall, checking every door. He does not find another unlocked one until he comes to the last door, S14. The door has a note taped to it that says, "_If Jonathan looks calm, he can be taken out of his cell._"

The room inside is much the same as S3, but bolted onto the desk is a gray metal box. The lid is locked with two combination locks. One is a push button, the other is a dial. On top of the box is a note written in red ink. The handwriting is surprisingly neat, but the grammar is poor:

_Dearest Louise,_

_i'm so sorry but i'll take care of you four ever now_

_it's my destiny!_

He remembers the carbon paper and takes it out. He tries 2326 on the push button lock first and it opens with a click. He tries the same combination on the dial, but it does nothing. "Hmm." He says and leaves the room.

There is another examination room and a shower room on the floor. They are both locked.

He is unsure where to go next. The rooms are all locked; he's checked the second floor and the first floor wing was locked but—_the west elevator goes down to the first floor patient wing_, he thinks, looking at the map.

He goes to the elevator and pushes the down button. Nothing. He looks at the numbers above the elevator doors and sees that the 'R' is lit up. _It's on the roof,_ he thinks, _well, I've got a key_.

He makes his way back to the stairway and ascends to the roof. He is once again conscious of the silence of the hospital. Despite having been alone in the town before, Maria's absence leaves him feeling hollow and nervous. I have noticed mortals are frequently more comfortable in the presence of others and while there are a few exceptions it is true for Them as well. Alone in the silence and darkness, every sound means the presence of dangerous. Yet at the same time, the human brain gets restless and agitated in silence, desperate for some kind of audio stimulation. But I do not let it come. For now.

The roof door is locked, but it opens with a rusty creak when he uses the key. Twilight has turned to night and he cannot see far beyond the reach of the flashlight. The roof is gravel and crunches slightly when he steps on it. The elevator is not hard to find, it is right across from the stairwell. A fire hose is next to it on the building and right beneath it is a small faded gray spiral notebook. He walks over to the book and picks it up.

It has been out in the weather some time and most of the pages are stuck together and the ink has washed through. The last few entries are legible though:

_May 9_

_Rain. Stared out the window all day. Peaceful here – nothing to do. Still not allowed to go outside._

_May 10_

_Still raining. Talked with the doctor a little. Would they have saved me if I didn't have a family to feed?_

_I know I'm pathetic, weak. Not everyone can be strong. _

_May 11 _

_Rain again. The meds made me feel sick today. If I'm only better when I'm drugged, then who am I anyway? _

_May 12 _

_Rain as usual. I don't want to cause any more trouble for anyone, but I'm a bother either way._

_Can it really be a such a sin to run instead of fight? Some people may say so, but they don't have to live in my shoes. _

_It may be selfish, but it's what I want. It's too hard like this._

_It's just too hard... _

_May 13 _

_It's clear outside. The doctors told me I've been released - that I've got to go home._

_I— _

The journal cuts off in mid-sentence. He puts it down and presses the elevator button. He hears it whirr and click and then abruptly stop. A little red light above the button blinks twice. He pushes it again. Again he hears it whirr and click and stop. The red light blinks twice. He pushes the button a third time and looks closely at the light. Above it very small letters read LOCK. This time the whirr and click are followed by a strangely familiar scraping noise. For a second, he worries that he has damaged the elevator cable in some way but then realizes the scraping is not coming from inside the elevator shaft.

It is coming from behind him. His mind registers first that he _has_ in fact heard that scraping sound before. Then it registers where he has heard it and panic strikes him.

He does not have time to reach for the gun. By the time he turns around, Pyramid Head is in mid-swing and the flat of the black knife strikes James in the mid-section. Air explodes from his lungs and he is sent flying. He does not remember hitting the fence or going over it. There is only the sensation of falling into darkness…


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The first thing he is aware of is padding. He can feel his head resting on some sort of padding. He is staring at a padded wall. The next thing he is aware of is pain. There is a dull throbbing sensation in his head. He feels a sting on his temple and soreness in his ribs.

His mind works faster and he gradually becomes more aware of his surroundings and himself. He is lying on his side in a padded cell. For a second he wonders if he has been in a padded cell all along and his trip to Silent Hill was nothing more than a delusion. That passes as he realizes the only light in the room comes from the flashlight in his breast pocket. His clothes are the same; he can feel the holster of the gun clipped to his side; the bullets rattling in his jacket; and the jingle of keys in his pocket.

He looks around the room. The padding was once white, but it is closer to grey now. He looks above him. There is a square hole in the ceiling that might have been covered by a skylight, but it is gone now. _I did go over the side_, he thinks dryly to himself, _I went over the edge and landed in the loony bin--Oh and I'm also in a padded cell at a hospital._

He stands up. His body aches with the effort but nothing seems to be seriously injured. He quickly checks to see if he has lost or broken anything in the fall, but everything is in order and does not seem to be any worse for the wear.

There is only one door in the room. It is a large, sturdy metal door with a feeding slot and a one-way mirror. There is blood on the mirror, on the door and on the floor surrounding the door. He moves closer to examine the door.

The blood on the floor has soaked into the padding and leaves a large irregular puddle-shaped stain. On the door is a smeared hand print and words. The words are sloppy and the grammar poor; the blood has dripped some and the author's grip on sanity is feeble at best. Nevertheless, he is able to read:

_t e r n t e r n_ _the n u m b e r s_

_bet t e r n o t f o rg et t he m_

_s o i ll rite th em d o wn h ere_

_the ot h e r one m ysec re t name_

On the one-way mirror are the numbers 5793 written in blood. He feels a flash of revulsion from the blood, but he _is_ good at solving puzzles and he makes the connection between the dial lock and the numbers written on the mirror. He gingerly opens the door while repeating the numbers under his breath until he is sure he has them memorized.

Outside the room is a tiny hall with three metal doors on the left side and one large set of double doors on the right. The doors on the left are marked ST3, ST2, ST1 in white lettering. The door he has come through is marked ST4. He goes through the double doors and tries to get his bearings. The double doors are marked SPECIAL TREATMENT and he instantly recognizes the outside hall as being in the east wing of the third floor.

He makes his way back to Maria's room and knocks lightly on the door. There is no answer. He knocks harder and calls her name. There is no response from the other side. He tries the knob. It is still locked. Fear knots his stomach as he calls her name again. She does not respond. He puts his ear to the door, desperately listening for some sign of life.

He cannot identify the noise at first. It is slow and rhythmic and seems to hover somewhere between a whistle and a buzz. He listens for several seconds; there is something familiar about the sound. The sound seems almost timed with his breathing and then he chuckles with sudden relief when he recognizes what he is hearing. _She's snoring_, he shakes his head in amusement, _she's fucking snoring_. Mary would always sleep on her side or on her stomach because whenever she fell asleep while lying on her back she would snore with that same rhythmic, half-buzz, half-whistle sound—until she got sick of course. Maria, with her identical nose, must have the same problem. With the door secure, he decides to let her have her sleep. _Lord knows I'd want someone to let me have some sleep right now_. He turns away from the door.

He walks the down the quiet hallway to S14 and enters the room. He turns the dial to each of the numbers from the special treatment room and the lock opens with a click. He opens the black box. The inside is lined with velvet and contains a silver key and a lock of braided black hair. The key is a short cylinder shaped stub. "W ELVTR" is engraved on it. _I'll be damned_, he thinks, _the guy had an elevator key_. He takes the key and looks at the lock of hair. It is dark and shiny; whoever it belonged to must have been very young. There is something odd about them that he cannot put his finger on, something that disturbs him.

He slips the key into his pocket, and then realizes what disturbs him about the hair. The hairs at the beginning of the braid have crooked white tips. The roots are still attached. _Jesus, this hair wasn't cut off,_ he thinks,_ it was torn off_. He slams the lid shut covering the hair and remembers what the memo said about Mr. Simpson: "_Tendency to become violent when agitated_"

He goes to the elevator and inserts the key into a circular hole above the call button. A small light above it blinks red and then flashes green when he turns the key. He pushes the call button and hears a click and a whirr as the elevator starts to move. He puts the key away as the doors open.

The elevator is wide and long to accommodate hospital stretchers and emergency staff. It too bears the faint smell of ammonia. He looks at the buttons and pushes the one marked 1F. The doors close and the elevator hums slightly as it begins its descent. He leans against the wall as a wave of exhaustion hits him and he closes his eyes, listening to the hum of the elevator's movement.

He feels the elevator begin to slow and he opens his eyes. The lights above the doors indicate that he has arrived at the first floor. He removes the gun from its holster as a small bell rings, signaling arrival at his destination.

The doors open and he steps into the dark hallway. Everything is quiet. The hall itself is identical to the second floor hall except at the far west end there is a door leading to the garden and pool areas. There are four patient rooms, the one in front of him is marked C4.

C4 is locked and C3 is the same. But we are both surprised to see light coming from beneath the door to C2. Quietly as possible, he makes his way to the door and carefully pulls it open. The light is from the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling and—having come from the dark hallway—is almost blindingly bright to James. It takes a second for his eyes to adjust before he sees the same thing I do.

Laura is kneeling on the floor with a partially completed jigsaw puzzle in front of her. She holds two pieces in her hand, trying to connect them. He holsters the gun and steps into the room.

This is not good.

"Laura?" He calls.

"Huh?" She looks up at him and frowns, "How'd you know my name?"

"Eddie told me."

She wrinkles her nose and turns to look back at her puzzle, "That big, fat, blabbermouth."

"Are you all right?" He asks her.

"Fine." She says absently, trying to put the two pieces together.

He walks over to her and squats on the floor across from her. "Laura listen," he begins, "how do you know about Mary?"

"Why do you care?" she sniffs.

"Because she's my wife."

"So?" She says

"Look, why can't you just tell me?" He pleads.

Laura looks up and stares at him suspiciously with hazel eyes. "You gonna yell at me if I don't?"

"No, I won't…I promise."

Do not make promises you cannot keep James.

"I was friends with Mary," She says, turning back to the puzzle, "we met at the hospital last year—"

"That's a lie!" he growls with such vehemence that Laura drops the puzzle pieces she is holding. The sound of the pieces dropping snaps James out of whatever rage might have been building and he is suddenly very ashamed of himself, "Oh no, Laura I'm sorry," he apologizes, "it's just—"

"Fine! Don't believe me." She picks the puzzle pieces back up and starts trying to put them together.

"No it's not that. It's just that, last year Mary was already…Look I'm sorry." He apologizes again and rubs his temples. His head has begun throb again and he remembers Maria upstairs. "Anyway, let's go." He gets up to leave.

"Wait, I wanna finish my puzzle first." She whines.

"No, we have to get going; besides this isn't any place for a kid." She looks at him blankly and he tries to explain it simply, "There are some very strange things going on here. It's very dangerous." He furrows his eyebrows in sudden perplexity, "Matter of fact, I'm surprised you haven't got a scratch on you."

She rolls her eyes and says, "Oh, I _forgot_, you're blind."

He ignores this. "Look, can we just go?"

"No, not until I finish my puzzle." She turns to the two pieces.

James contains his irritation and thinks, _if you can't beat 'em…_

He squats down and says, "Those pieces don't go together. That one," he points to the piece in her left hand, "goes here." He indicates a part of the puzzle close to her feet. "That one," he points to the one in her right hand, "goes here." He points to a part of the puzzle located near his feet.

She looks at him suspiciously, but puts the two pieces in their respective places. "They fit." She concedes. He sorts through the remaining pieces, handing them to her and telling her where to put them. The puzzle is not difficult, especially not for one such as James, and he moves through the pieces almost without even glancing at the puzzle. Laura, though her face is sullen, obeys all his commands without comment.

The puzzle is completed in less than two minutes. It depicts a cat lying lazily on a zebra striped ottoman with a view of the Toluca Lake skyline in the background. Laura, still surly and jealous of James's ability to work a puzzle so quickly, pouts, "For a blind man, you're pretty good at solving puzzles."

Indeed.

James accepts the backhanded compliment without comment and asks, with a trace of sarcasm, "Can we go now?"

"I guess so…" She gets up and walks out the door with James. They start to go left back towards the west elevator when Laura suddenly stops and tugs on James's arm. "Wait! Wait!" She cries.

"What is it?" He says, slightly alarmed.

"There's something I have to get." She starts to pull him back towards the east hallway.

"We can get it later; we need to go up to the third floor first."

"But it's really important!"

He grimaces and says, "What is it?"

"A letter from Mary." And suddenly, Maria is forgotten.

No, no, no, no…This is bad. This is very bad. I _must_ get him away from the outsider.

"Huh?" He says incredulously.

"A letter from Mary, I wanna go get it. Is that okay?"

"Yes, of course!" He follows her down the hall to the examination room on the left, his pulse racing with excitement. Laura gets to the door and pulls out a key card and puts it in a slot above the handle. A green light blinks and she pulls the door open. "It's in here on the desk at the back." She points inside the room.

James enters first; while he does not want to scare Laura by drawing the gun, he keeps his hand near the holster. But with the outsider present, the radio is silent and the room is devoid of enemies. He has taken three steps inside before he realizes that Laura has not followed him in.

"Laura?" He turns to see the door slam shut and hears Laura's giggle from outside.

"Ha-hah! Tricked you!"

"Very funny Laura." He walks over to the door and tries to open it, but it is locked tight. "Laura," he calls, "open the door."

"Why should I? I tell lies, right?"

With the locked door between them, I am no longer restricted by the outsider's presence and a solution presents itself…

From somewhere near the back of the room, James hears a slither and a snarl and the radio begins to emit a slow drumming sound. He bangs on the door and calls louder, "Laura, open this door!"

"What's the magic word?" She says in a sing-song voice.

There is clang of metal and he can see something moving in the back. His head is throbbing and his frustration is growing.

"Laura! Open the door now!"

"I don't know…" she taunts in her sing-song voice, "…I don't think I'll open it…I'll just leave you here." She giggles.

He hears another clang of metal and a menacing grunt from behind him. He can now see two shapes moving around in the back. His agitation finally gets the better of him,

"You snotty little brat!" He screams at her. To his credit, he resists his tongue's urge to hurl a more vulgar obscenity at her. But the damage is still done. He can hear Laura make two angry sobs before she screams back, "You fart-face!" She gives the door a little kick and then she runs off.

Temper, temper James.

He turns to face the back of the room. He can now see three shapes and he draws the gun as they slowly come into view. They are rectangular and seem to hover near the ceiling. They are encased in what appears to be the black metal frame of a hospital bed, though it does not reflect the light, casting shadows over the creatures themselves, making it difficult to see for certain. Their legs, some color of dark green with veins sticking out all over them, hang out below the frame and dangle slightly as the creatures move. The creatures themselves seem draped in ragged shrouds though the light does not reach high enough to see them in their entirety and they carry with them the smell of freshly dug soil.

They drift towards him like ghosts floating in the Ether, silent except for the occasional rattling of metal, though the drumming of the radio makes their approach seem like an executioner's march. He aims for one of them; he sees two glints of light that could be malevolent eyes. He fires five shots, the ache in his head makes it difficult for him to concentrate and his aim is not as good as it has been. He hears one shot bounce off the metal frame, but the creature slows with each impact of the next four. He fires another shot but does not watch to see its effect because one of the other creatures is almost on top of him.

It tries to grab him around the neck with its feet but he tucks his chin and scrunches his shoulders together and the creature only manages to get a tenuous grip on him that he easily slides out of. He aims his gun at the creature and fires two shots into it before the first creature comes from behind and kicks him in the head. He might have been able to shrug it off were it not for his pounding headache. Instead, stabbing pain shoots through his temples and he stumbles forward, trying to keep his balance and hold onto the gun.

He succeeds at the latter, but not the former and he falls forward, scraping his cheek on the floor. He rolls to his right; the action has become almost instinctive now. He points the gun up at the nearest creature, hoping that the last three bullets left in the clip will finish it. He shoots while still lying on the floor, one of the hot brass casings bounces off of his forehead and he winces in pain.

There is a shriek like the wail of a banshee heralding death, and the creature before him suddenly stops mid-flight. Its legs convulse and then stiffen, the two glints of light disappear and its form stays still as stone.

He drops the clip and struggles to load the other magazine. His hands are shaking and the pain in his head and the drums on the radio are distracting him. He scrambles to his feet, still holding the gun and the clip. He races to the corner of the room, putting more distance between himself and the creature. He still cannot get the magazine in. _Hurry up!_ He screams to himself, _get the clip in_. The creature closes in, eyes glittering; the radio drums a death knell. _If you don't get this clip in right fucking now, you are going to die!_ A moment of clarity hits him and he realizes he has been trying to put the clip in backwards. He turns it around and slams it in. The creature is already swooping towards him. He ducks under its feet and sprints to the center of the room, his heart and head pounding with the drums on the radio.

The creature slowly begins to turn, but he fires first. Six shots and, with another blood-curdling wail, its feet stiffen and it stops moving.

He senses that something is still wrong, but his mind is sluggish and it does not occur to him that the radio has not gone silent until the third creature seizes his neck with its feet from behind him. He tries to tuck his chin in but the creature's feet are strong and already have an iron grip on his carotid arteries, leaving him with only a few precious seconds of consciousness remaining.

He does not have time to think his way through his next action. He puts the barrel of the gun against the creature's right calf, turns his head away, and fires. He feels the pressure on his neck disappear and then he is aware of dropping to the floor. He cannot hear anything out of his right ear. He thinks he hears another banshee wail in his left. He brings his head around to see the thing above him. Though his head feels weightless, the effort brings spots in front of his eyes. He can see where the bullet tore through the flesh of the right calf and nearly severed the creature's foot. _The monster's so close…I think…I can just_…He points the gun towards the creature with a slightly unsteady hand and empties the clip into it.

He does not know if he has killed it. After he fires his last shot, he can feel darkness closing in around him. His head is dizzy, spots and stars flood his vision, there is a ringing in his ears, and he is utterly exhausted. He does not fight to stay conscious; he simply tries to make himself comfortable before passing out. He puts the gun on the ground and lies down next to it. He rests his head against the cold, hard floor then closes his eyes. The pain in his head vanishes and he lets silence and darkness dissolve the world around him…


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_I am moving. I cannot breath. A ceiling with rusty pipes is above me. My limbs are still. I feel a hospital stretcher beneath me. The wheels squeak. I feel sick. Did I die? I am trapped. My head is burning. I feel sick. The ceiling moves faster and faster. My limbs are still. The wheels squeak. I cannot breath. I don't want to die, but I can't live like this. Help me! There is someone with me. I feel sick. I hear a voice whisper my name. My head is burning. I am trapped. I hear her whisper my name again. If I'm not dead, then what has become of me?_

He wakens from the nightmare in darkness. He feels his breast pocket for the flashlight. He finds it and turns it on. The air is strangely crisp and fresh. Shining the flashlight about tells him that he is outside, though he has, in fact, been sleeping on a hospital stretcher. The memory of the creatures in metal frames comes back to him and he immediately begins checking his belongings.

The flashlight, bullets, and wallet are still in his pockets; though counting of his keys reveals that every key he has found in Silent Hill is gone, as are the maps of Blue Creek and Woodside apartments. The gun, thankfully, is in its holster, and the spare magazine lies on the stretcher, though neither is loaded. He sits on the stretcher and begins the task of loading the gun. His fingers aren't quite as raw as they had been before and the time goes quickly.

His headache has vanished and while his sleep was somewhat troubled, his exhaustion has faded. He rubs his eyes and examines the area.

The ground below is poorly tended grass, slightly damp from the day's mist. There is a door not far from the stretcher, and the walls around him seem to be a white concrete, not unlike the outer walls of the hospital. The area is otherwise empty.

"Where the hell am I?" He says to himself.

The door is composed of metal and rust and it takes some effort to open. It finally does so with a low squeal. He steps inside.

It is obvious he is still in _a_ hospital, though he wonders if it is the same hospital. Brookhaven had appeared to be deserted. This hospital appears to be a ruin. The linoleum floor is cracked with bits broken off and scattered about. The walls have turned brown from accumulated dirt and water stains. The door in front of him is boarded up and the door on his left is dented and rusty. The smell of ammonia has been replaced with the smell of rust and mold.

_How long was I out?_ He wonders. _It's still night, couldn't have been that long, could it?_

He opens the door on his left and enters a hallway. He can see a door on his right, marked C4 in paint that is so faded it is almost illegible. He is about to take out his map when the radio starts to hiss and pop. He readies the gun. He spots the light reflecting off of the mannequin's shiny veins just past C3. It has not started moving yet and James does not give it the chance. Three bullets and it collapses. The radio goes silent.

He is getting good at this. Too good. Something must be done about that.

He pulls out the magazine to reload the gun but his box of bullets is surprisingly light. He opens it and does a quick bullet count. He comes up with six bullets. _Shit_. He frowns and tries to work out how many bullets he has used since he took the pack from the convenience store. He is certain he should have more. But he cannot quite recall precisely how many shots he has fired since. He also did not do a bullet count after he fell from the roof. _Maybe I lost some there_. Seven bullets left in the current magazine, ten in the spare and six in the box. _Twenty-three bullets_, he thinks, _and I've used an entire clip almost every time I've met something nasty_.

He takes out the map. Apart from the state of decay, the hallway appears identical to the first floor patient wing. His first thought is to check the room he found Laura in, but it has been boarded up. The examination room where he fought the hanging monsters is locked. The door to east wing of the hospital is sealed off with a tarp. There is no sign of Laura anywhere. He stops and takes stock of his situation. Laura is not here and he has no idea of where she has gone and he does not like the thought of having to search the whole hospital again with his now-limited supply of ammunition. He decides his best option is to go to the third floor and find Maria. _If she's still there…_

He is surprised to find the elevator still working, though it seems to move much more slowly and the doors are scratched and dented. The bell does not chime when he reaches the third floor and the doors shake and shudder as they open with a small squeal. The hallway is clear and the radio is silent.

To his left is the west stairwell door. It had been locked before and he had paid it no attention. But now it is covered by a full length portrait of a lady with a background of dark green mist. She wears a hooded black and crimson robe. Her skin is pale and partially reflects the light. Her smile is warm but her hazel eyes are cold. It is to her hands that he is drawn however. Her pale hands are outstretched with her palms facing up. The fingers of the left hand are gentle and relaxed, as if the hand were offering a gift. But the fingers of the right hand seem tense as though it were demanding compensation. Most significant though, is that the hands are not part of the painting, but sculptures extending out of the painting and into the hall. He touches them carefully. They feel cool like metal and are smooth except for circular grooves on the ring finger of each hand. He looks back at the portrait's eyes. There is something familiar about them.

He cannot help but stare at the portrait for a few seconds as the paint, while dark for the most part, seem fresh and new in contrast to the surrounding decay. But a few seconds is all he allows himself before leaving to find Maria.

The door to S3, like most of the metal doors, is rusted and dented. He gently knocks on the door. There is no response.

"Maria?" He calls, "It's James, are you in there?" Still there is no answer. He tries the knob which turns easily enough, but the door itself is stuck to the frame. He kicks it three times before it opens with a loud bang. He enters the room and his heart sinks. Maria is not there. The window is boarded up, sheets have been draped over the bed and tiles from the ceiling have fallen down and lie broken on the floor. _Am I still at Brookhaven? If I am, how long was I out on that stretcher for?_ He searches the room, looking for some sign that Maria had once occupied this room. Between the bed and the dresser he finds a spent shotgun shell casing, but it does not smell like it has been fired recently. _Damn it, I shouldn't have left her here._ As he is checking the dresser drawers however, he finds a crumpled piece of paper. He straightens it out. There are words written in black ink on it and at first, he hopes it is a note left by Maria, but a quick reading tells him otherwise:

_She is an angel no one knows only_

_I can see the Lady of the Door_

_They cannot walk along her bridge_

_of Thread They fall from the weight_

_of Their crimes._

_Like bloated and ugly corpses_

_Their sins she devours them_

_sin and sinner alike she saves_

_me she delivers me from this _

_place she is an angel._

The handwriting is neat, but something about the shape and curve of each of the letters suggest that it is a man's handwriting and the substance of the note suggests another hospital patient. Disappointed, he crumples the note and tosses it on the dresser.

He looks at the map again. _She can't be in another one of the rooms in this hall; she'd have heard me kick the door open_. He decides to search the second floor patient wing, thinking that Maria may have gone into one of the rooms down there. He is not optimistic, but at this time, he has little choice.

He takes the elevator to the second floor. The hallway is quiet and dirty. He starts his search at M5—M6 being boarded up. The beds in the room have dusty sheets draped over them, and there are gouges in the wall. Bits of linoleum from the floor have been scattered about as are tiles from the ceiling. The dust on the floor is thick and there is no sign that anyone has been in the room recently. He leaves the room and moves on

M4 is locked and there is no response from beyond the door when he knocks. M3 is sealed off with a tarp. M2 is identical to M5. He opens the door to M1 and the odor of iodine creeps into his nostrils as the radio begins to emit static with that high pitched whine.

He cannot see the nurse and, mindful of his last encounter in one of the M rooms, he backs away from the doorway. _Let it come to me_. He cannot hear it move, but then they never made much noise to begin with. Its foot appears in the doorway, then its twitching head with the button nose and vacant-eyed stare, and the rest of it soon follows. He fires twice. The first bullet hits, but the nurse shifts the angle of its shoulders, causing the second one to miss. He moves back down the hall trying to keep his distance from the nurse.

The nurse lunges at him twice in rapid succession, trying to close the gap between them. He keeps his nerve and shoots it again, catching it between the hollow eye-sockets. Its head snaps back briefly but it quickly levels itself and resumes its twitching stare. The pipe comes up again and he fires twice more. The nurse appears to throw the pipe but it lands harmlessly on the gritty floor in front of James. The throw was not intentional but rather a result of a weakened grip. The nurse sinks to its knees and then slowly crumples to the ground, blood pooling beneath it.

Seventeen bullets.

James loads the last three bullets from the box into the current clip and then swaps the full clip in before going into M1. The room's layout is identical to the others except the bed on the left has been pushed away and there is a small niche carved out of the wall. The inside of it is painted black and there are dull red stains running down from it that could be rust or dried blood. A key glitters in the niche along with a white slip of paper.

He walks over to the niche to get the key. He notices as he gets closer that on the wall just above the niche someone has painted two pale hands clasped together in prayer. On the ring finger of the right hand is a small grey band, and on the left hand is a small red band. He picks up the key which has BASE STORE engraved on it. He picks up the slip of paper. On it, in the same handwriting as the note he found in S3, is written:

_I was locked up inside_

_the basement's basement._

_It was so small and dark_

_and I was so afraid._

_I dropped my precious ring._

_But I will never,_

_ever go back there._

He takes the key and considers the content of both notes. _There's something about the door with the lady. Those have to be her hands painted on the wall there._ He cannot quite put this puzzle together yet and so he leaves the room.

The door to the east wing is barred, but the Day Room door opens with ease. The room had once been a common area with tables, chairs, a refrigerator, two couches and a television. But, like the rest of the hospital, it is now a ruin. The chairs and tables are cracked and broken and have been strewn about the floor. The television screen has been smashed in and the rabbit ears are bent and rusted. The upholstery on the couches has rotted and the refrigerator lies on its back; it is dented with a large jagged concrete slab that had probably been part of the ceiling lying at an odd angle on top of it. The windows are boarded up as is the door on the far side of the room.

He sees nothing in the wreckage of the room and is about to leave when something briefly reflects the flashlight. It comes from inside the refrigerator. The odd angle of the slab leaves a small crack of the inside exposed and as he gets closer he can see something circular and shiny within.

The crack is not large enough to get his hand through, but looking into it he can clearly see a copper ring with some engravings, though he cannot make them out. "Hmm." He says. He tries to push the slab aside but even with his full weight against it, the concrete is far too heavy

He looks back at the map, and remembers that he did not try going into the east wing of the third floor. It only contained the Special Treatment Rooms, a storeroom, the east stairs and elevator. But he had assumed she would have gone looking for another room to rest. If, instead, she were trying to leave the hospital she might have taken the east stairs or the elevator to get down to the first floor.

He takes the elevator back up to the third floor and quickly passes through the double doors to the east wing. Although the west hallway was empty, he is still worried about encountering monsters here in the east wing and he pauses in the doorway, ready to flee if necessary. But the radio is as silent as the hospital itself and he lets the doors close behind him.

He first tries the elevator. He pushes the buttons but nothing happens. No noise of blocked cables or lights indicating the elevator is locked on another floor. There is no evidence whatsoever that the elevator is functioning at all. He stares at it for a minute and then goes to the stairwell.

He descends the stairs. The railing is gone and many of the steps are loose and wobbly, and he takes his time walking down. He reaches the second floor, or what he thinks should be the second floor. The second floor landing is covered in dust and broken bits of plaster and a few glass shards that had once been an overhead light. But there is no door, only three bare walls and stairs heading down. A feeling of unease settles on him but he continues on. _I wasn't planning on going to the second floor anyway._

But his unease turns to fear when he reaches the first floor and finds there is nothing there but three more empty walls and stairs leading down to the basement. "Damn." He mutters.

He looks at the map. _Nowhere to go but the basement_, he thinks, _some of the utility rooms are down there; maybe I can get the elevator working in one of those rooms…_

With no small amount of trepidation, he descends to the basement.

The walls are darker here, absorbing the flashlight's glow and cutting down James's visibility. The bottom yields another nasty surprise. The hallway leading to the hospital's boiler room, pump room, and—most importantly—electrical room is gone. Where the map shows a corridor on his right, there is nothing but a black wall. In front of him is a rusty door that had once been marked STORE ROOM in white paint.

His original plan thwarted, he eyes the storeroom door warily. The author of the note had been afraid of something down here. But he is running out of places to go. He takes out the key and puts it in the lock. The lock, like the door, is rusted; the key turns with a great deal of reluctance and the door opens with a loud groan. The storeroom is not large and most of the metal shelves are empty save for a few rotten towels and an empty paint can.

On the shelf directly across from the door, the flashlight picks up several red spots on the left edge. He moves closer to examine them. The red has begun to turn brown as the blood dries. The spots are imprints from when fingers covered with blood have gripped the shelf. On the side are two bloody palm prints that have been pressed so hard against the shelf that James can see the ridges of the palm stamped into the blood. He walks to the other side of the shelf and sees the dirt has been disturbed on that part of the floor and grooves have been scratched into what remains of the linoleum. _This shelf's been moved_, he thinks. The hand prints are the wrong size to be Laura's or Maria's, but one of them may have come through here.

He returns to the left side of the shelf and, careful to avoid the bloody prints, puts his hands on the shelf. It resists for a second but then smoothly slides to the side. The opening it reveals is short; he has to crouch to look into it.

Beyond the opening is a small alcove. The floor in the alcove is a tight steel grating. In the center is a dark, man-sized hole. Riveted to the side of the hole is a sturdy iron-rung ladder.

Before he can move further into the alcove, he hears the door open behind him. He quickly turns as he hears a voice call, "James!"

He sees his wife's face and blue eyes reflecting the light back at him as the smell of orange sherbert reaches his nose.

"Mary?" He says without thinking. The face registers shock, and he quickly takes in the blond and pink hair, the lipstick and the eye-shadow and realizes his mistake. "Oh, Maria…It's you…I thought you were…Sorry. Anyway," he says, trying to gloss over his blunder and change the subject, "I'm glad you're alive—" He suddenly sees her nostrils flare and her jaw set. He has seen the same expression on Mary's face the time he drove over the potted acacias next to their driveway and also the time the Department of Motor Vehicles employee told her they had voided her license for filing a renewal under a false name two years after she and James had been married; the results had not been a pleasant side of Mary and he mentally braces himself for what he knows is coming next.

"'_Anyway'_?" Her eyes are hot with fury and she is the second woman James has met who can make a whisper sound like a shriek, "What do you mean '_anyway_'? You leave me all alone and next thing I know, I'm waking up in a ruined hospital with two of those nurses banging on my door and my shotgun gone and you're _nowhere_ to be found!" She takes a breath but it sounds more like a snarl, "I manage to get away from them and then I spend two hours hiding in a fucking broom closet, until _finally_, you are so good as to pass by without evening hearing me! Have I mentioned that because _you_ took the only flashlight we have I had to do all this completely in the dark! And then, by some miracle I get down here in one piece and you don't even realize it's me!" Another breath, "Instead of 'Maria, thank god you're alive!' it's 'Mary? Oh Maria? Sorry, well la-dee-da lets go! Never-mind-the-fact-that-I-care-more-about-women-who-have-been-dead-for-three-years-than-I-do-about-anything-else!'" She breathes again, "You couldn't care less about anything else, could you?" Her voice is quieter now, but her eyes have begun to water.

"No, I care, it's just—"

"Then stay with me!" She wails, throwing herself into his arms and burying her head in his shoulder as she begins to weep. "Don't leave me again, James. I've never been so scared in all my life!"

James stands there, just holding her and letting her cry in his arms. The only thing that ever seemed to work when Mary cried was to just stand there and wait until she finished. So he waits. Eventually, Maria's crying turns to sniffles and then to silence but she continues to rest her head in his shoulder. After a few more minutes, she releases her arms and pulls a tissue from her skirt pocket and begins to wipe her face.

"Better?" He asks.

She nods while dabbing her eyes. She finishes, tucks the tissue away, and gives him a small lop-sided smile, "Thank you." She says and quietly kisses him on the cheek.

Build the attraction.

"So what about Laura?" She asks, "Did you find her?"

"Yeah, but she ran away."

"Then she's probably…" But she does not let herself say it.

"I don't know. I haven't been able to find her." He pauses. "Do you know her from somewhere?"

She shakes her head, "I've never met her before. I just feel sorry for her. She's all alone in this place…in this town…" She sighs, "And…I know what that's like."

James nods, "Don't worry, I'm sure she's all right." But he does not even believe himself.

He ducks his head down and crawls into the alcove and over to the ladder. He shines the light down the hole. The floor is probably no more than eight feet below and appears to be dark concrete. He descends the ladder, the iron rungs are like ice in his hands and he feels a chill as he steps foot onto the metal plated floor below. The walls around him are black and the temperature has dropped several degrees.

"James, are you okay?" Maria calls from above.

"Yeah, I'm fine. There's nothing down here but—wait a second..." The flashlight catches something small and metal. He walks over to it and picks it up. It is a small, grey ring. It seems heavy for an object of such diminutive size. There is a tiny carving on it which, in the light of this "basement's basement", looks like a grossly bloated face.

"What is it James?"

"It's a ring."

"A ring?"

"Yeah, a ring. It's got a weird design on it."

"What kind of design?"

"Looks like a face. Listen, I'm going to come back up, I don't think there's anything else down here."

"Okay."

He walks back over to the ladder. Just before he begins his ascent he notices the pair of bloody hand prints on the rungs. Another chill passes through him and he quickly climbs back to the top.

"So, no sign of Laura or a way out down there?"

"Nope, just this ring." He shows her the ring.

"Ew, what is that?"

"I don't know. But I've got another idea."

"What?"

"Did you see the west stairway door on the third floor?"

She shakes her head.

"There's a portrait of a lady on it. Except the hands are part of the door itself, I think maybe a kind of latch or something." he catches her quizzical look. "I found a note in your room; I think a patient wrote it. It talked about the 'Lady of the Door' being able to 'deliver me out of this place' or something like that. It's a little crazy, but I think he meant that the door there leads to a way out of the hospital."

"What does that have to do with the ring? Or Laura for that matter?"

"Well, when I met Laura, she had a hospital key card which probably gave her the run of the hospital. So, given that we haven't found her so far, I think she may have a way to get around the hospital on her own."

"So you're saying she may have left already?"

"Not exactly; see, I haven't checked the east wing on the first or second floor because I haven't been able to get to them, she _might_ be in one of those places if she has a way to get through to the east wing. Given that the east elevator's broken and that there weren't any doors on the first or second floor in this stairway, she has to have gone through—"

"Okay, okay," She interrupts him, "I'll take your word for it. But what about the ring?"

"Right, the ring." He holds it up, "On one of the second floor rooms I found a little shrine and another note from the patient talking about losing his 'precious ring' in 'the basement's basement'. The shrine—well it was just sort of a hole in the wall—had a picture above it of these white hands—which I'm pretty sure represented the lady's hands—and each one had a ring on it. One was grey and one was red. So the ring is probably a kind of key."

"Alright, let me get this straight: based on the ravings of a mental patient, you believe that two magic rings are required for the 'Lady of the Door' to allow us passage out of this nightmare of a hospital?"

"I didn't say they were magic." He says in all seriousness.

She giggles, "Oh _touché_, you've got me there. But don't you think it's still kind of a stretch? Using rings to open doors that _might_ help us find a little girl or _might_ help us escape from this hospital?"

"If you've got a better idea, I'm open to it."

"Okay. But what about the second ring? The red one?"

"I think I know where it is."

"Well, after you then."

Ascending the stairs is easier than descending them. He does not have to worry about his momentum carrying him over the loose steps. And, as I have observed before, he takes comfort in the presence of another and bloody handprints, raving mad patients, and locks of hair are forgotten as the climb back up to the third floor melts away the feeling of isolation and loneliness that has plagued him since leaving Maria in room S3.

But such moods never last long while They are in Silent Hill.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

As he opens the door to the third floor, the radio comes alive with static and the air is thick with the smell of iodine. The first nurse is to his left but its back is towards him. He fires straight from the hip, four shots. Its pipe clatters to the ground and it collapses.

Thirteen bullets.

The second nurse rounds the corner and the third nurse is not far behind. _Damn_.

There are six bullets in his clip. _I've got enough to kill one of them before I have to switch clips,_ he thinks, _but not both_. He starts shooting, trying to kill the second nurse. Four shots again. _Two for two_.

Nine bullets.

"Patient wing!" He shouts to Maria and then sprints to the doors to the west wing of the hospital. The third nurse swats the body of the second out of the way; the delay is not much, but it allows James to get the doors open. He holds them open and Maria runs through them without any urging. He points the gun at the nurse and fires his last two shots, more as a delaying action than anything else.

Seven bullets.

He lets the doors close and quickly changes magazines. He stands just out of the range of the doors with the gun pointed at them and waits. The radio grows louder but he cannot hear the nurse. He considers just making a run for the elevator, but he will have to return to the third floor and decides it is better to fight it now.

"Maria," he whispers, "get ready to pull the left door open. When you do, stay behind it. I don't want you to get shot. Got it?"

Maria nods, though he can see fright in her eyes. She walks up to the door and puts her hand on the handle.

"Now!" He says.

She yanks the door open and puts herself between it and the wall. James fires two shots into the open doorway before he realizes there is nothing there.

Five bullets.

He swears and puts the gun in his left hand and grabs the handle of the other door with his right. He pulls it open; the nurse on the other side has been expecting him to come through the left door and it does not have time to even turn its twitching head towards James before he puts two bullets in it and then kicks it to the wall.

Three bullets.

The nurse lies still, but the radio continues to make white noise. He looks to the right and he sees the writhing body of a spitter with its mouth agape. He hears the gurgling noise and, with no time to shoot, covers his face as he turns away. The spray hits him from behind. His face and his ears are well protected, but the back of his neck and his right hand are both exposed and they get coated with the stinging vapor.

Hot, stabbing pain erupts in his hand and in the skin on the back of his neck. He screams and fires at the spitter. The pain makes it difficult to aim, but that is offset by the creature's proximity. He hears the radio go silent after three blasts.

No more bullets.

The pain is overwhelming and he falls to his knees, still screaming. He is aware of Maria running over to him and trying to sooth him, but he cannot bring himself to do anything other than squeal from the fire in his skin. Maria tries to wipe away the liquid with tissues from her skirt, but they are insufficient for the task. "I'll be right back." She assures him, but he can think of nothing but the pain. Maria returns after a minute but he is not aware of the passage of time, only the burning pain. Then, strangely, the pain begins to lessen. It starts in his neck where it feels as though someone has gently pulled the needles that buried themselves in his skin, leaving it feeling warm and rough. He can now see that Maria holds a large sheet pulled from one of the beds and is using it to wipe his neck clean. She works her way down his back, getting rid of all the fluid on his jacket. She then turns her attention to his hand and arm. The pain has now subsided and James is left with just an unpleasant sensation of warmth in his hand and neck.

He slowly gets up. Maria throws the sheet aside, takes a clean tissue and starts to wipe his face. It is only then that he realizes that he has tears running down his cheeks.

"Better?" She asks.

"Much." He smiles faintly. He looks at his right hand; the skin there is red and chapped all over. He can flex his fingers, but the rough skin rubbing against itself makes it uncomfortable to do so. "How does my neck look?" He asks.

"About the same as your hand."

"Damn." He pauses, and then says, "Well, we were headed to the second floor, we might as well get moving."

Maria nods but asks, "Are you sure you're okay?"

He gives another faint smile, "I've been better, but I think I can manage."

He enters the patient wing and makes his way back to the elevator with Maria beside him. He pushes the call button and decides to broach the ammunition situation.

"Hey, Maria."

"Yes?"

"I don't have any bullets left. If we meet anything down there…we're going to have to make a run for it."

"Oh goody, my instincts having been telling me to run away screaming like a frightened little school girl all day. Finally, I get to indulge them without any guilt."

"What about when you were running from the nurses?"

"I wasn't screaming like a school girl."

"Oh. Sorry," he says, missing her joke, "I wish we could find more bullets somewhere, but I don't think this hospital's got an armory."

Not to worry James. This town has been very good about fulfilling your wishes. Whether you like it or not.

The dented elevator doors reluctantly open and he and Maria step inside. He pushes the second floor button as they close behind him. Suddenly the radio starts to emit static. He quickly looks around the elevator, but sees nothing. Then the sound of applause comes from the radio and a maniacal radio announcer's voice is heard:

HI THERE EVERYBODY, THANKS FOR TUNING IN. WELCOME TO ANOTHER EXCITING EDITION OF "_TRICK OR TREAT_"!

Maria and James exchange baffled looks. The phantom audience applauses again and the announcer continues:

HERE YOU EITHER ANSWER THE QUESTIONS CORRECTLY AND WIN A GREAT PRIZE, OR _FAIL_ TO ANSWER CORRECTLY AND RECEIVE THE PUNISHMENT. IT ALL DEPENDS ON YOU. AND TODAY'S LUCKY, OR SHOULD I SAY _UNLUCKY_, CHALLENGER IS _JAAAAAAMES SUNDERLAND_! JAMES, ARE YOU READY TO PLAY "_TRICK OOOOOOR TREAT_"?

"What the hell?" James asks.

Maria shrugs her shoulders, "Don't know."

The announcer continues:

OKAY HERE'S YOUR FIRST QUESTION: MERRY-GO-ROUND, HAUNTED HOUSE, ROLLER COASTER, FERRIS WHEEL, AND TEA CUPS. SILENT HILL IS HOME TO A _THRILLING_ AMUSEMENT PARK THAT BOTH CHILDREN AND ADULTS LOVE. THE QUESTION IS: WHAT IS THIS AMUSEMENT PARK CALLED? IS IT:

A) FANTASY LAND

B) SILENT HILL AMUSEMENT PARK

C) LAKESIDE AMUSEMENT PARK

OKAAAAAY! QUICKLY ON TO QUESTION TWO: SILENT HILL WITNESSED A GRUESOME MURDER A FEW YEARS BACK. A BROTHER AND SISTER WERE PLAYING IN THE ROAD WHEN THEY WERE ATTACKED AND CHOPPED TO PIECES WITH AN AXE. TORN FLESH, SMASHED BONES, SPLATTERED BLOOD AND FINALLY…WELL, NO NEED TO GO THERE! HA HA HA HA HA HA!

The announcer cackles wickedly and the audience responds with canned laughter.

WHAT A TERRIBLE TRAGEDY. WHAT A _GRUESOME_ END TO SUCH INNOCENT LIVES. WHAT WAS THE NAME OF THE MURDERER WHO COMMITED THIS VILE ACT? WAS IT:

A) WALTER SULLIVAN

B) SCOTT FAIRBANKS

C) ERIC GEIN

NOW FOR OUR THIRD QUESTION! SOUTH OF THE LAKE IS A DESERTED OLD NEIGHBORHOOD CALLED SOUTH VALE. FROM THERE TO PALEVILLE, THE CENTRAL RESORT AREA NORTHWEST OF THE LAKE, THERE'S ONLY _ONE_ ROAD YOU CAN TAKE. JUST _ONE_ ROAD, NO MORE. THE THIRD QUESTION IS: WHAT IS THE NAME OF THAT ROAD? IS IT:

A) BACHMAN ROAD

B) RENDELL STREET

C) NATHAN AVENUE

FOURTH QUESTION. SILENT HILL WAS HOME TO MANY GREAT AMERICAN HEROES. THIS MAN WAS A LIEUTENANT IN THE BATTLE OF BEMIS HEIGHTS WHERE HE WAS HONORED FOR ACTIONS ABOVE AND BEYOND THE CALL OF DUTY. HE WAS LATER POISONED BY THE SPY MIRIAM KATHENSHIRE. A SAD _END_ FOR SUCH A COURAGEOUS MAN. HIS _STATUE_ NOW STANDS IN ROSEWATER PARK. OUR FOURTH QUESTION IS: WHAT WAS THIS HOMEGROWN HERO'S NAME? WAS IT:

A) DANIEL MORRIGAN

B) PATRICK CHESTER

C) EDWARD WINFIELD

AND NOW, OUR FIFTH AND _FINAL_ QUESTION. YOU'RE CURRENTLY IN A RUN-DOWN ELEVATOR IN BROOKHAVEN HOSPITAL. WE ALL KNOW BROOKHAVEN AS SILENT HILL'S PREEMINENT _MENTAL_ INSTITUTION. BUT IT WAS ORIGINALLY FOUNDED TO HANDLE VICTIMS OF A BRUTAL _PLAGUE_ THAT BROKE OUT IN THE 19TH CENTURY. THE FIFTH AND FINAL QUESTION IS: WHAT YEAR WAS BROOKHAVEN HOSPITAL ESTABLISHED? WAS IT:

A) 1847

B) 1893

C) 1879

WELL, THAT'S THE LAST OF OUR QUESTIONS. HAVE YOU GOT IT ALL FIGURED OUT? WHEN YOU THINK YOU KNOW THE ANSWERS, HEAD TO THE STOREROOM ON THE THIRD FLOOR TO COLLECT YOUR PRIZES! BUT BE CAREFUL. IF YOU'RE WRONG…HA HA HA HA HA! NO NEED TO GO THERE EITHER!

The audience laughs again.

WELL THEN EVERYBODY, THANKS FOR TUNING IN! SEE YOU AGAIN SOME TIME. BYYYYYYYYYYE-BYE FOR NOW!

The audience's applause slowly dissolves into static and the static slowly fades away.

"Strange." Maria says.

The doors open with a small squeal and he steps into the hallway. The radio is quiet and he does not bother drawing the gun. Maria flips the elevator hold switch before stepping out. "So we won't have to wait for it when we go back up." She explains. He nods and makes his way down the quiet hallway to the door to the Day Room. He cracks the door open, ready to close it if the radio starts up. But it does not.

"Over here." He says to Maria, pointing at the fallen refrigerator.

"The ring's in there?" She says, sounding skeptical.

"Yeah, take a look." He walks over to the crack and shines the light in so Maria can see.

"Well," She says, "you're right, there _is_ a ring in there."

"Help me move the slab."

"What? You're the big strong man, how do you expect a little girl like me to move that thing?"

He gives her a hard look. "Okay, okay," she admits, "that wasn't funny."

With Maria assisting, he puts his hands against the slab and pushes. It resists for a brief second but it gives slightly and the crack widens enough for Maria to reach inside for the ring.

"Ick, doesn't look much better than that other one."

She hands him the ring. It is made of copper and, like the ring from the basement, is engraved with a face. This face, however, is thin and hollow and has an expression of desperate longing.

"That's two. Let's go." He says, pocketing the ring.

The walk back to the elevator is quiet and uneventful. James's mind is pre-occupied with thoughts of escaping from the hospital and finding a way to the hotel. Maria, sensing this, remains quiet until they reach the portrait on the door.

James begins to take the rings out of his pocket but Maria stops him. "Hold on," she says, "we haven't gone to the storeroom yet."

"The storeroom?" He asks, puzzled.

"For the prizes."

"From the radio? You're not serious are you?"

"Of course I am. It's probably something we could use."

"It's probably a trap."

"Has the radio ever tried to trick you?"

James is about to respond, but he stops himself. _No, it hasn't, has it? In fact, I'd probably be dead if I'd left it at the tunnel_. "All right. It hasn't. But just because it hasn't, doesn't mean it never will."

"Look, you already killed everything over there. We could just go there, take a little peek, and if it doesn't look good we'll go. It could be something important—like more bullets maybe."

"Okay," he says reluctantly, "but if there's anything else in that room…we're gone, right?"

"Absolutely."

The bodies of the nurses and the spitter are still lying motionless in pools of that black ichor that seems to course through the veins of all the monsters that have haunted James in Silent Hill. The radio is quiet as he approaches the storeroom door. He puts his ear to it, but he hears nothing. He cracks it open. There is a faint light coming from inside. The radio stays quiet and he lets the door open all the way.

The storeroom's walls and ceiling are a grey plaster that has begun to flake and scatter. On the far wall is a large shelf that is surprisingly well stocked with cleaning supplies and medical equipment. On the wall to the right is a sturdy metal desk with a large metallic box on top. The light comes from a small lamp with a flexible head attached to the desk.

He enters the room and goes over to the box. Maria closes the door and flips a light-switch, bathing the room in yellow light. James turns off the flashlight and takes a moment to let his eyes adjust to the light before he examines the box.

The box is composed of a silvery metal and seems to be welded to the desk. On top of the box are fifteen metal buttons. They are organized into five rows of three. Each button is marked either A, B, or C and the rows are numbered one-through-five.

"So, is that our prize box?" Maria asks.

"Looks like it," James says, "now we just need to answer the questions. Okay, question one was something about the amusement park. The name of the place?"

"Right. I'm pretty sure that was choice C, Lakeside Amusement Park."

"I think so too." He pushes C in the first column. There is a small clicking sound.

"Did we get it right?" Maria asks.

"I don't know, but nothing bad happened so let's hope for the best. Next question was something about the murders of a brother and sister."

Maria shakes her head, "Yeah, I don't know the murderer's name."

"Hmm. Do you remember the choices?"

"Yes," she says quickly, "A was Walter Sullivan, B was—"

"Hold it, the answer's A."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I saw an article about it." He pushes A in the second row. A click. "Third question…" He scratches his head, "…what was the third question?"

"Name of the road to Paleville. Don't know that one either."

"Nathan Avenue. I had to drive that road almost every time we came to Silent Hill."

"Okay, that makes it choice C."

"Right." He pushes C in the third row. Another click. "Fourth question." He scratches his head again, "It was the name of some soldier in Rosewater Park, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, Patrick Chester, choice B."

He pushes B in the fourth row. Yet another click. "Okay, last question…." His mind draws a blank.

Maria smiles, "'What year was Brookhaven founded?' And the answer is 1879, which makes that C."

He smiles back and pushes C in the fifth column. There is another click followed by the sound of a latch opening and the lid of the box springs open.

"Well done." He gives her a grin and she returns it.

The inside of the box is lined with a light red felt and is much more spacious than it appears on the outside. Inside the box are two fifty packs of bullets and another clip—fully loaded. There is also a four-pack of AA batteries—the same kind the flashlight uses.

"Well," Maria says with her lop-sided smile, "I was hoping for a triple-digit tab at Neely's, but I'll settle for this."

James gives a polite chuckle and then opens one of the bullet boxes to load his empty clips. Maria starts searching through the shelves. After he finishes, he distributes the new clip, the full box of bullets, and the batteries amongst his various pockets. He is about to leave when Maria comes over to the desk with a plastic box of medical supplies.

"Take a seat on the desk." She says.

"We should get going."

"You need a little medical attention first." She says, digging through the box.

"My hand? It's not that bad." He lies.

"Oh, yes it is. And it's not just your hand; you've got a few cuts and scratches that are probably going to get infected if you just leave them alone. Especially in a place like this."

"Okay." He concedes, sitting on the desk.

She opens a pack of sterile wipes and rubs them around his hand and the back of his neck. It stings slightly but he pays it no mind. Next she takes out a white squeeze tube, "You remember your friend, hydrocortisone?"

"Yes."

"All right, you put some on your hand and I'll do your neck." She squeezes a small amount of the white cream into his hand. He rubs it in and waits while Maria massages his neck. He is once again surprised at how warm her hands are.

"James?" She asks.

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you a question? You don't have to answer it if you don't want to."

"Go ahead."

"Am I like your wife at all?"

He is somewhat taken aback by this. "Do you really want to know?"

"Well, yeah—but like I said, you don't have to answer." She quickly adds.

He thinks about it. "You know, it might sound odd, but you kind of have the same sense of humor."

She finishes with his neck and walks back to the medicine box. "Really?" She says, taking out some cotton swabs and sterile wipes.

"Yeah, I mean, she never joked around the same way you do. But the things you find funny are the same kinds of things she thought were funny."

"Huh." She takes out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and unscrews the cap.

"You have a lot of the same physical mannerisms," he continues, "some of your facial expressions and the way you walk."

"I see," She dips a cotton swab in the hydrogen peroxide, "let me know if this stings." She dabs it against a cut on his cheek. He feels a prickle and then a tingling sensation as the peroxide bubbles, but there is no real pain. "It's fine." He says.

"Good." She replies.

"Why did you want to know—about your similarities to Mary, I mean?" He asks.

She begins to dab other parts of his face, "Morbid curiosity I guess. It's not every day you find out you have a clone. I just wanted know if she was anything like me, personality-wise."

"Well, you're a lot different personality-wise. At least on the surface."

"On the surface?"

"Yeah, you…uh, I don't mean anything by this—but you're a lot more talkative. She tended to be a bit more reserved around people she didn't know that well."

"That must have made things tricky when you first met."

He chuckles, "Not as tricky as you might think. I did have to do a lot of the talking in the first few minutes, but she opened up eventually, I was pretty determined."

"Because of her love of punk rock?"

"Yes, although her legs were also a factor." He says without thinking.

"Oh really?" she smirks and he blushes. She takes some alcohol wipes from out of the box and uses them to clean the traces of the spitter's liquid from his jacket. After she finishes she takes a clean wipe and says, "This is probably going to sting." She then wipes it across the abrasion on his forehead.

"Ow!" He winces from the pain.

"Sorry," she says and then smirks again, "believe me, if I could just kiss it better I would."

She finishes and then says, "Roll up your sleeves; you've probably got some scratches under there." He obediently pulls up the sleeves of his jacket. She quickly attends to a few scratches on his elbows with the wipes and then some covers them with some Neosporin and gauze bandages. "So your sleeves won't rub against them." She explains.

He pulls his sleeves back down and she looks him over. "Well, not a bad job if I do say so myself."

"I don't look too banged-up do I?"

"No, you're still handsome." She winks.

"Thank you." He smiles, in spite of himself.

Build the attraction.

"Here," she says, picking up the hydrocortisone, "take this with you—in case you get spat on again."

"Thanks." He says dryly and packs the small tube away.

"Are you going to take the other box?" She says, pointing to the opened pack of bullets.

"No, I don't really have space." He says, patting his now bulky pockets.

They leave the storeroom and go back to the west stairway door and the portrait of the Lady. He takes the rings out. _Hmm, the grey band was on the right hand_, he puts the ring with the bloated face on the right hand, _and the red band was on the left_, he puts the ring with the hollow face on the left.

There is a small click and the door swings inward. James raises an eyebrow at Maria. She holds up her hands in mock surrender. "You win. The magic rings worked. Prize is you get to go through the door first."

The stairs are composed of concrete and the walls are a sooty black. The stairwell has a musty smell to it. Dust has collected in the corners and in the various nooks and cracks, but the stairs themselves have very little and James takes this as a sign that the area has been traveled recently.

He descends to what he estimates is the basement though all he finds is a narrow dark corridor the runs well beyond the meager range of his flashlight. He walks forward with Maria beside him.

"You don't mind if I get a little talkative right now do you?" She asks.

"I told you I didn't really mean anything when I said that."

"No it's not that. It's just…I'm a little nervous right now."

"Me too. Go ahead."

"You sure? I'm warning you right now, I intend to babble like I've never babbled before."

"Babbling is fine with me. Anything is better than silence right now."

"That's exactly what I was thinking. I mean, I know I don't like people who go on and on and on about nothing but I could really use some small talk right about now." She laughs nervously, "I mean you know, you'd think 'Alone in the dark with something tall, blond, and handsome? What's to be afraid of?' But here I am…scared shitless—excuse my language."

"Don't worry about that." He gives a small laugh, "I think I've used more swear words in the last day than I have in the last five years. This town seems to be bringing out the worst in us." He suddenly gives a little smirk, "If you've really been scared that bad you might want to change your underwear."

"Oh ha-ha, that's very re-assuring. Nothing says 'Don't be afraid' better than knowing that a man with a gun is thinking about your underwear."

"I was just trying to lighten things. And your commando wisecrack earlier—I don't think I've laughed that hard since…" He stops himself, "…well, not for a long time."

Up ahead, a yellow glow becomes visible. "Are we close to the end?" Maria asks.

"We're close to something." He says. There is a moment of silence which he breaks by voicing a mischievous thought, "You know, I was holding back something in the storeroom."

"What was it?" She asks.

"Another similarity between you and Mary."

"Uh-oh, I'm not sure I'm going to like this."

"You're not." He grins. "You both sound the same when you snore."

"_What_?"

"It's true."

"I do _not_ snore!" She huffs with feigned indignity.

"Yes, you do," he teases, "I heard you when you were sleeping on the third floor."

"First I find out you're thinking about my underwear and now you tell me that you watch me while I sleep? I'm not sure if I'm terrified or flattered."

"I think I'd prefer the latter."

"Mmm, me too." She says archly.

Build the attraction.

The glow comes from ceiling lights that run down the hallway in front of him. The wall on the right has turned into a chain link fence. The light is harsh and casts striped shadows everywhere. Up ahead the corridor turns around and heads back towards him on the other side of the fence.

"Do you think this is close to the end?" Maria asks.

"I'm not sure." He puts his face against the fencing and looks down the corridor. It extends for perhaps another twenty feet and then stops at a pair of open elevator doors. "Yes!" He says excitedly, "there's an elevator there."

"Thank god."

He quickens his pace, as does Maria. The prospect of finally escaping the hospital has brought on another feeling of jubilation. But Maria breaks the mood by bringing up a subject he has been avoiding.

"James, what do we do when we get out?"

"What do you mean?"

"We get out of the hospital—then what?"

He shrugs. "We pick up where we left off. Find a way to Lakeview Hotel."

"What if we can't? Or what if you don't find anything there?"

He pauses. "Then…I guess…I'll leave. I just had to find out if she was still…" He looks at her as they turn to the other side of the fence and start walking back up the hallway towards the waiting elevator. Though she tries to hide it, there is a timid questioning in her eyes. "You can come with me if you want." He says, answering her unspoken question. "That way this trip won't have been a total loss." He smiles.

She returns the smile, "Thank you, I'd like that very much." She links her arm around his and rests her head on his shoulder as they walk.

Build the attraction—

He walks in silence, enjoying the warmth of her head on his shoulder and the aroma of her perfume. Hours earlier, he would have felt guilt at such contact, but now he feels only serenity. _Maybe if I don't find Mary_—but his thought isabruptly cut off when he begins to hear the faint sound of breaking glass from behind him. He turns to look over his shoulder.

—and **_DESTROY_** him with it.

The red-hooded figure of Pyramid Head stalks the shadows of the corridor behind them, holding a six foot spear with a large, triangular, obsidian colored blade and a red shaft that matches the hood. Without even slowing down, Pyramid Head uses the spear to smash each ceiling light it passes under, leaving behind a trail of darkness.

_crash, crash, crash._

"Maria, run!" He starts to take the gun out of its holster but then Maria screams, "James! The elevator's closing!"

He whips his head around and sees the doors at the end of the room have begun to narrow. He _might _be able hold off Pyramid Head with his pistol, but Maria cannot run as fast as him and if the elevator doors should close—_then we're both dead_. He leaves the gun in its holster and races towards the elevator doors with the sound of breaking glass in his ears. He manages to squeeze through the doors and he gives them a nudge, expecting the safety mechanisms to activate and open the doors.

But they do not.

_Crash, Crash, Crash._

He quickly mashes the OPEN DOOR button on the panel but they continue to close. He tries to force them apart with his hands. His muscles burn with the effort, but he does manage to bring them to a halt when they are only just inches apart. But inches are not enough and when Maria arrives she is able to get only her arm through the opening. "James!" She screams through the small gap.

_CRASH, CRASH, CRASH._

"Hold on to me!" Her hand tightly grasps his shoulder. _Open up! Open up! Open up!_ He mentally shouts at the doors, pulling harder, gritting his teeth and groaning with the effort. He hears the sounds of shattering glass getting closer and he looks up over Maria's head in horror as Pyramid Head strides towards her like a headsman making his final march to the condemned.

"_James!_" Maria screams again.

**_CRASH, CRASH, CRASH_**.

Pyramid Head is right behind her. The spear comes up and shatters the final ceiling light. The flashlight in his breast pocket is pressed against the door, confining its light to inside the elevator. Everything outside is plunged into absolute darkness.

"James…" Maria's voice whimpers from within the dark, "…Don't let me die here…"

"I won't, I—" but he is cut off as her hand suddenly shudders from the first impact of the spear. He hears her cough and small droplets of blood splatter onto her burgundy sleeve. "_James…_" She her voice is almost a gurgle. Her face suddenly presses itself close enough to the opening of the doors for him to see her blue eyes—so very much like Mary's—stare back at him with a look of pure fright. "_James_…" she gurgles again with blood beginning to leak out of her mouth.

The second impact makes her head recoil and it vanishes into the black void behind her. The hand shudders again and again as the unseen spear stabs her over and over. Then her fingers relax and the arm goes limp.

"Maria…?" He whispers, though in the dark depths of his heart he knows that no answer will come.

He twists his torso while keeping his hands on the elevator doors so as to point the flashlight into the gap. A decision he regrets.

Maria—with her face so like Mary's—stares back at him with eyes wide with terror though they can no longer see. Streaks of blood run down from them like red tears. Her mouth is agape in a scream that has been silenced by both the blood in her lungs and the flat blade of the spear protruding up from her throat and past her lips like a bloody black tongue. The blade suddenly shifts and is violently pulled back into her mouth, taking out several teeth with it and tearing her cheek. Her head slumps to the side. The tear in her cheek hangs open and exposes her bloody gums and remaining teeth in a grisly caricature of her lop-sided smile. Blood slowly begins to run down from her scalp and covers her blue eyes with a crimson sheen that turns her gaze from one of terror to one of silent wrath.

"_You let me die…_"

The words are a ghostly whisper and he is never sure if she really spoke them at all or if they were merely spawned from his imagination. But the effect is the same. An iron fist clamps around his heart and with a strangled cry of horror and defeat, his hands fall away from the doors and he collapses in shock against the back of the elevator. Maria's arm is pulled back into the black hallway; the doors slam shut and the elevator begins to move with a gentle, almost innocuous hum that belies the hell it carries with it.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The walls of the elevator are white and pristine, but he does not care. The movement is slow and gentle, but he does not care. The elevator stops and a small bell rings, but he does not care. The doors open and the first floor hall waits, but he does not care.

His body has metabolized the sandwich so his retching is nothing more than dry heaves. He finishes and sits with his back leaning against the wall. He stares at the floor. Maria is gone. There is nothing left of her except a smudge of blood on the floor and the memory of her eyes staring at him through a veil of blood. Four words echo in his head and the stages begin.

"_You let me die…"_

Denial.

He stares at the floor to obscure her face and concentrates on the sound of his breathing to muffle the words. And it works. For the moment. He stands up and straightens himself out. His legs shake slightly but he manages to leave the elevator and enter the hallway.

The decay of the first floor's east wing is not as profound as it has been on previous floors. The paint has almost completely peeled off of the walls and large scratches run the length of them, but there is no sign of dirt or water damage. The floor is intact for the most part, though it is covered in dust and black streaks crisscross the tiles. But he takes little notice of this.

He reaches inside his jacket to get the map. But his hand trembles too much to get his fingers into his pocket. He forces down panic and relies on his memory. He makes a left out of the elevator. _The doors should be this way_, he thinks, _and then I can get out of here_.

The flashlight reflects off of the glass on the automatic doors and he races towards them, eager to be free of this hospital and its nurses, bodies, and memories.

Not yet, James.

The doors do not move. Despite the decrepit appearance of the hospital, a small red light blinks on the swipe card terminal. Locked. He undoes the manual lock and tries to pull the doors apart. The effort is in vain. Unbidden, the image of Maria's bloody face rises in his mind and whispers the words out of her torn cheek.

"_You let me die…"_

Anger.

"I tried!" He screams, more at the doors than anything else. He pounds his fists on the glass. It is cold, hard and does very little to alleviate his rage. He has enough sense not to waste ammunition trying to shoot his way through the doors. Instead he storms over to reception. The door is boarded, but it is not his intent to enter. He rips a loose two-by-four away and carries it back to the hospital entrance.

He hefts the wood in his right hand and slams it against the glass of the doors. The doors make a loud thud that seems to reverberate through the halls of the first floor but they show no signs of breaking. He slams the wood again and again against the glass but it refuses to yield. Finally, the two-by-four cracks and splinters down the center. In one last fit of rage he hurls the remaining pieces at the doors.

There are some superficial scratches on the glass, but otherwise, little has been accomplished. He takes a deep breath, trying to force away a feeling of panic that is rapidly replacing his anger. He stares at his translucent reflection in the doors. He looks at the abrasion on his forehead and remembers Maria smirking and telling him she would rather kiss it better. Then smirk tears her cheek, blood begins to flow out of it and she wheezes those four words again.

"_You let me die…"_

Bargaining.

He shakes the image out of his head. _If I can just get out of this hospital_, he thinks, _I can make it to the hotel and Mary_. He notices the windows to the director's room just to the right of the hospital doors. The director would no doubt have a key. The windows are the same impenetrable glass as the doors, but as he wanders back to the hallway he finds something unique about the director's door. Unlike the other doors in this hospital, it is composed almost entirely of wood. He tries the knob and finds it locked. This time he decides to use some ammunition. He puts two bullets near the knob. It is not enough to blow the lock off, but with the wood around the lock weakened, he is able force the door open with a kick.

There is a tiny waiting area with a broken chair and table just inside. The door to the inner office is broken off of its hinges and rests against the side of the wall. The office itself contains an oak desk, a wooden swivel chair and two file cabinets.

He lays the gun down on the desk and searches its drawer. He ignores the trembling in his fingers as he pulls a stack of papers out. They appear to be only administrative documents. He searches the rest of the drawer and finds nothing. He grunts and looks over the rest of the room. The file cabinets are empty and there are no other compartments in the desk. Not a single thing to open the doors and let him escape this nightmare.

He forces down panic again._ Come on, just let me get out of this hospital_, he thinks, _I'll find Mary, I'll stop Pyramid Head, I'll do whatever, just let me out of this fucking hospital!_ He slumps in the chair and takes out his picture of Mary. He looks at her deep blue eyes, trying to find solace, _Help me Mary_. But blood begins to drip from her scalp, first one drop, then two, then three, and then many until her blue eyes are veiled in blood and he is once again looking at Maria through the elevator doors and the whisper comes again.

"_You let me die…"_

Depression.

He puts the photo away and stares at the ground. _It was just my imagination_, he tells himself. But the vision stays with him as he looks at the floor. Somewhere below that floor lies Maria's corpse with her face torn, her back twisted by gaping wounds, and teeth littered about her head. Or perhaps not; perhaps Pyramid Head has dragged her away to some lair where her limbs are ripped apart like those mannequins in the stairwell and her body is mounted on a wall, or maybe hung in an iron cage like some sort of trophy. And then his thoughts move to Laura. With so many nurses and Pyramid Head about, her small body probably lays lifeless somewhere in the hospital; her hair in tangles, her pink dress torn and covered in blood and her hazel eyes with dilated pupils reflecting the obsidian spear or rusty pipe that brought about the end to her short life, stare into darkness.

He leans back in the chair, _God I'm tired_. His gaze falls on the gun lying on the desk. It has been such a useful thing to him. And yet in the end, it could not save Maria or Laura. It cannot get him out of this hospital. _Or can it?_ He picks up the gun and admires the barrel. It is black and reflects very little of the flashlight. But he sees it as something sleek and beautiful. Though he is unaware of it, his thoughts are beginning to mirror Angela's.

He runs a finger over the barrel. It feels warm and smooth. _I'm so tired_, he thinks, _and what do I have to show for it? I'm not any closer to Mary. Maria and Laura are both dead. I couldn't save them. It's easier just to run. But I'm so tired and I've no place left to go. Except…_he looks at the face of the barrel and his thoughts turn to darker things. He would not be missed for several days. He called in sick on a Friday and no one would think to check up on him until Tuesday. Even then, it might be several more days until someone bothers to file a Missing Persons report. The police will search his home and find no evidence of a long journey. They will suspect murder or suicide. His co-workers and friends will mention his wife's death. They will decide to go with suicide, but they will find no other evidence. He has not left a note, nor has he updated his Will. They will rule out suicide and leave the case open. The only clue to his whereabouts is inside his jacket pocket written in delicate cursive handwriting. Outsiders rarely stop at the rest area where he left his car. It will be months or even years before anyone finds it. To the rest of the world he will just be another Missing Persons case that has gone cold. They will file it away in a metal cabinet or perhaps a library shelf and that will be the last anyone ever hears of James Sunderland.

Silent Hill almost claims another victim. Finding himself trapped forever in a nightmare hospital in a nightmare town in a nightmare world, James places the muzzle of the gun on his temple and puts his finger on the trigger. _I'm tired of running_, he thinks. The whisper comes again as he is about to squeeze it.

"_You let—"_ but the words are suddenly cut off by the sound of small feet running down the hallway outside.

Acceptance.

He lowers the gun and looks out the windows. Laura, her pink dress neat and clean, her hazel eyes sparkling, and every hair in place, scampers playfully to the hospital doors. She takes out a white key card and runs it through the electronic lock. The red light blinks once, turns green and the automatic doors open. Laura exits, but the light on the terminal remains green. _Laura's still alive?_ His mind races. The first floor east wing door had been closed; she could not have gotten through there. That left the elevator, but that would have meant going past Pyramid Head. Something is not right.

The presence of the outsider dispels his gloom and brings a moment of clarity that forever alters his perception of the town. There is a rational part of his mind, a part that does not believe in creatures that spit acid, animated mannequins with shiny veins, undead nurses reeking of iodine, faceless executioners, and letters from beyond the grave. James, like most of Them, ignores this part more and more the deeper into Silent Hill he goes. But it takes this opportunity to force its way to the surface long enough to thrust one thought at him.

_This town is a riddle that needs to be solved_.

Well done, James. For now.

He puts the gun back in its holster. He does not bother going after Laura, she has too much of a head start. Instead, he turns his attention back to the stack of papers. Mostly they consist of financial documents and policy reviews. But a memo catches his attention:

**Re:** Day Trip incident.

Bruce,

I contacted Mr. Carroll and he said nothing was missing after the day trip. So Jonathan probably made the whole thing up during one of his episodes. His doctor has requested that we keep a copy of his "confession" though. I'll hold on to the original. I'll also look into replacing all the typewriters with password controlled computers as long as you promise not to say 'I told you so'.

——Phil

There is a piece of carbon paper from one of the typewriters attached to the memo with a paperclip. The text is clearly Jonathan's "confession"

_I too k the direk tors key the on e to the m oos eeum. I hid it be hind the prey ing woman whe n I w ent out for the day trip. I pick ed it up bu t I did not s teal it. Im not a krim minal._

He sets the memo aside and continues sifting through the papers. At the very bottom of the pile are a map and a note handwritten in black ink:

**He who is not bold enough **

**to be stared at from across**

**the abyss is not bold enough**

**to stare into it himself.**

**the truth can only be learned**

**by marching forward.**

**Follow the map.**

The map is of Silent Hill and a red X is drawn on Neely's Bar. Written in black ink and in handwriting identical to the note, are the words, "**_They_ found him here.**"

James looks at the note; there is something familiar about the handwriting. Then he pins it down. _The man with the broken neck,_ he thinks, _the first note I found by him had handwriting like this_. "Hmm." He says aloud.

He takes the note with him, reloads his magazine and leaves the director's room. He goes back to the lobby doors. With the lock disengaged, they open easily and he leaves the hospital behind.

The night is cold, dark, and silent. There is no moon and no stars. The fog may have cleared during the night, but the flashlight's range seems to be limited and his visibility is once again reduced to nothing more than a few yards.

He checks his map and frowns. Neely's Bar would not normally be difficult to get to, except there had been a wall blocking Katz Street. He came through the apartments last time, but now that those keys are gone, he might have to take the long way around. _Looks like it'll have to be Saul Street to Neely_.

He heads south. It is not long before he hears the static and whine of the radio. By now he has determined a pattern to the static. White noise means there is a spitter. Hissing and staccato popping means a mannequin. White noise with a high pitch whine means a nurse.

He draws the gun and walks carefully down the sidewalk. He sees the nurse to his left, approaching from the street. In the open air, the iodine smell is not as potent as it was in the hospital. He is about to fire but then reconsiders his situation. Instead he bolts down the street and listens as the static slowly fades. He has gotten used to dealing with monsters in the relatively confined space of the hospital which almost always necessitated a fight. But out on the open streets of Silent Hill, the monsters, with their strangely universal slow pace, cannot outrun him.

When the radio is silent he slows down to a walk, conserving his energy and catching his breath. There is a change in the town. He cannot place his finger on it immediately. Fog has been traded for darkness, but there is something else. His first hint is the sidewalk. There are cracks in the pavement and it is uneven, with some segments being higher than others, some being lower and many of them are loose. Then there is the mailbox that he passes. The blue paint has completely flaked off of it, replaced by brown rust. It is badly dented and stands at a crooked angle. _Maybe it's just the one_, he thinks, _then again, maybe not_. As he is crossing a street he stops to examine the metal pole that would probably have been attached to the stoplight. The pole is scratched, twisted, and spotted with rust. Where there had once been a pedestrian walk button, there was now nothing but a jagged hole with wires hanging out. The wires do not have the shine one normally sees in exposed copper. Instead they are dull and crusty, like a penny that has been covered in dirt for years. The flashlight does not give sufficient illumination to see the top of the pole, but the base is littered with rounded pieces of shattered safety glass. He starts to examine it closer, but the sound of a spitter on the radio makes him move along.

When he is somewhere between Munson and Harris he finally realizes what has changed. Blocking Saul Street is a building that was once under construction. Like the wall that blocked Lindsey Street, it is composed of girders and tarps. But the tarps are dirty and torn and the girders are bent and feeble for their size. He finds an opening on the right hand side. It had once been blocked by yellow hazard tape, but that has long since torn away and only a few scraps are left around the opening.

In his search for the opening however, he finds a building on the side of the street with its glass windows shattered. The front door is missing and the roof has collapsed. He frowns and looks at the next building down. It too is in a state of ruin. He walks across the street and looks at the buildings there. They too are decaying. _This whole town's become a ruin_, he thinks.

He goes back to the opening and shines the light inside. The area is passable, though some of the girders seem precariously positioned and the smell of rotten wood from somewhere inside the tunnel puts him on edge. The radio is silent, but he takes his gun out nonetheless. If something comes at him while he's inside he'll have to fight it. The passageway is long and was never meant to be permanent. The rotten wood smell comes from the temporary support beams that have been put in place. He walks nervously under them, aware that the wood could easily give away and bury him under countless tons of steel. It is then that the radio begins to hiss and pop. The acoustics of the tunnel amplify noise and vibration so despite the sound of the radio, he can hear the mannequin running from behind him. He turns and fires thrice down the way he came. The tunnel is narrow enough that it would be almost impossible for the mannequin to dodge every bullet.

The sound of the gun is deafening and he stands listening for a few moments, letting the ringing in his ears subside. The radio is still emitting static but another noise catches his attention. A groan is heard from somewhere above him as steel girders shift ever so slightly, driven by the sonic vibrations created by the discharge of the gun. The groan travels down to the wood support beams where it turns into a mild crunching sound.

The mannequin is forgotten as James bolts down the tunnel. He can hear the static on the radio and he is certain that it is not far behind him; though whether it is in pursuit or whether it is simply trying to escape the imminent collapse of the tunnel, he is not sure. He hears a crash somewhere back in the tunnel and knows one of the supports has collapsed. The groan of the girders increases. His instincts tell him to move faster but with his visibility limited by the flashlight, he does not dare. _One small slip…_

He can hear more supports breaking. The groan turns into a screech as more girders shift out of position and the center of the tunnel begins its collapse. A melodramatic storyteller might stretch the truth to drag out the suspense of James's escape, but not one such as me. He clears the tunnel with more than a few seconds to spare. Behind him, the screech of the girders turns into a roar as the whole construction caves in on the tunnel. The roar drowns out the radio and all other sounds before settling. There are a few rings of steel on steel and thumps of heavy objects hitting the ground and then all is as silent as it was before.

He walks back to inspect the wreckage. The wall is now better described as a pile consisting of broken concrete and twisted steel girders. The tunnel is gone and he can see a pair of legs with shiny veins sticking out from beneath a collapsed girder. The wall itself may be gone, but the pile is just as impassable and he bleakly realizes that if he wants to go back to West South Vale, he shall have to find another route.

He looks at his map. He is not far from Neely Street and the bar is less than a block away from there. Perhaps because they are attracted by the noise of the collapse, more monsters seem congregated on this side of Saul Street. He manages to evade most of them, though he is forced to kill a mannequin that leaps out from behind a tree and a nurse that catches up with him while he is dealing with the mannequin.

The monsters thin out once he reaches the intersection of Neely and turns left. Neely's Bar is located on the right hand side of the road. As he nears it, white noise on the radio tells him there is at least one spitter near the entrance. He changes magazines and walks closer. Though he has not yet noticed it, the flashlight battery is wearing down and the light is not as bright as it used to be. Thus the spray is inches away from his face when he finally sees the twisting figure step into the light. The outcome however, is predictable.

The radio's noise does not cease after the creature's death however. He hears the gurgle to his left and, remembering the spitter in the hospital, sprints several steps forward without bothering to look left. He turns around and almost catches another spray in the face. But something gives him pause. The noise the creature makes before spitting now seems almost like a word. He takes a step back. The spitter makes the sound again, followed by vapor. It falls short again. James puts aside the temptation to let the creature spit again in order to find out the word it seems to be saying and shoots the creature twice. The radio is silent.

The windows of Neely's Bar have been boarded up. The sign has fallen off long ago and the door has been torn off its hinges. The inside is dank with a faint smell of putrefaction. The emaciated figure of a spitter lies just inside the entrance, though the wrinkling of its membrane suggests it has been dry and dead for a long time. Neely's had a reputation as being one of the more upscale bars in Silent Hill. In front of him is a fifteen foot bar, or what remains of it. The mahogany is now black and chunks of the surface have been torn out. The stools are gone, square outlines in the floor are the only evidence of their presence. The "Employees Only" door to his left is gone and the walls around it are black. The area to his right was once filled with tables and plush leather booths, now it is completely barren. The walls, ceiling, and floor are all lined with cracks.

He walks to the far end of the bar and finds "**him**" huddled in a corner. It is little more than a skeleton in slacks and a white lab coat. There is still a slight putrid odor about it although its bones have rotted clean for the most part. Its lower jaw is missing giving the skull an expression of loneliness. Its bony fingers are wrapped around a phillip's head screw driver and there is an envelope tucked into the crook of its elbow.

Careful not to disturb the skeleton more than necessary, James takes the envelope and opens it. Inside is a note written in blue ink and it only takes him a moment to recognize the handwriting as being the same as the person who wrote the third note of the Warning.

_**Or perhaps you are a fool, James. The truth usually betrays people. But if you must…**_

_**A part of that abyss is in the old society.**_

_**The key is in the park at the foot of the praying woman, under the ground, inside a box. To open it, I need a screwdriver.**_

_**My patient buried it there. I knew but I did nothing. It made me uneasy to have such a thing near. I wasn't looking for the truth, I was looking for tranquility.**_

_**I also saw that thing. I fled, but the museum was sealed as well. Now no one dares to approach that place.**_

_**They're coming through the door. I pray to the Lord to have mercy on both our souls…**_

The flashlight is slowly fading and he has to squint to read the very last lines. He takes the pack of batteries out and pulls out a pair. He then switches them with the old batteries in the flashlight. The light is unexpectedly brighter and he has to let his eyes adjust to the new light level.

When they do he notices the back wall is now illuminated, revealing ominous bright, red letters that traverse the length of the wall. It is a message written in the same unsteady handwriting as the second note of the Warning, though the tone is much more menacing now.

**If you really want to SEE Mary, **

**then you should just DIE.**

**But you might be heading to a different place than MARY, James**

The message on the wall sends a chill through his spine. He turns away from it and reloads his magazines. After he finishes, he takes out his map. There is no question that the park the Third Man refers to is Rosewater. The problem is getting there. The only remaining route left for him is his original route through the apartments. His keys are gone, but he left most of the doors unlocked. _If I can get the gate open_, he thinks, _I could probably make my way through_. The town is now a ruin so, he reasons, the gate might not even be intact.

He folds the map and puts it away. He takes the note from the skeleton and puts it in his pocket. The screwdriver tucks into his belt, albeit somewhat awkwardly. He turns to leave, doing his best to ignore the writing on the wall. It has not been that long since he was contemplating the message's suggestion and he tries to keep the memory out of his mind.

It is not unusual for Them to make it this far, but few actually take Their first step towards redemption. The Path to Redemption is always a difficult one to walk even when one is outside of Silent Hill. Metatron bids me to leave the way open, but he has never cared how difficult I make the journey and I do not intend to treat James any different than the rest of Them.

The Third Man is correct; the truth usually betrays Them. All too frequently, when the Damned _do _discover the truth, They find themselves wishing that They had taken the advice the Second Man gave Them.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

After leaving the remnants of Neely's Bar he turns right and travels up Neely Street until he reaches Katz. With fresh batteries the flashlight's range has increased and, though he still cannot see across the street, this gives him a better sense of security. Both town and radio stay quiet until he reaches the intersection where a nurse stands at one corner and a mannequin at the other. He sees and smells the nurse first. It is easily avoided, but the mannequin on the opposite corner is much faster and he has to shoot it once in the leg to slow it down before he runs through to Katz Street.

The radio fades and soon the only sounds in the night are his shoes on the broken pavement. He slows and walks along the right side of Katz, watching for the Woodside Apartments gate. But all he finds is a tall concrete barrier that dead ends into the wall between Katz and Munson. He swears and is about to backtrack, thinking he has missed the gate somehow when he sees something on the wall between Munson and Katz.

It is an ebony door with a shiny brass knob and he knows it was definitely _not_ there before. Just above it, written in the Second Man's handwriting reads, "_The door that wakes in darkness, opening into nightmares._" The surface of the door is a glossy black that almost reflects the light back onto James. The knob has a concave front, which inverts the reflection of his hand as it grips the knob. It is strangely warm, as though someone else's hand has been resting there just before his arrival. He cautiously turns the knob and opens the door. There is a small click when he releases the knob, but otherwise the door opens in complete silence.

All he can say about the inside is that it is dark. The flashlight seems to be unable to penetrate anything beyond the door frame. The radio stays quiet though and, not having any other options, he steps across the threshold of the door. His foot is on metal grating with narrow, diamond-shaped holes. That much he can see though at first he cannot tell if he is entering a room or a corridor or simply the other side of the wall. He moves in further. The echo of his footsteps tells him he is in an enclosed space. He hears a small click behind him. He turns and swears.

The door is gone, replaced by a glossy black wall. And then the radio begins to make noise.

It starts as a faint rhythmic ping. But as it gets louder, the noise changes to more of a metallic rattle, like loose bars on an iron cage. He advances cautiously. There is, after all, nowhere to go but forward. The rattle of the radio grows even louder. Then the rattle is not just on the radio, but in the air itself. He can feel its vibrations in the grating upon which he stands.

The first one is not far. It hangs below the grating with a pair of webbed, almost mitten-like hands. It swings itself towards James, shaking the grate as it moves. James instinctively points the gun at the creature though consciously he realizes it is a pointless gesture; the holes in the grating are too narrow for him to realistically shoot through. He watches in fascination as the creature moves under him. He is not immediately concerned; its hands do not seem to be able to penetrate the grate anymore than his bullets can.

It holds its position beneath him and pulls its head up until it is flush against the grate. It is a face, though its exact dimensions are difficult to see, in part because of the shadow of the grate and in part because it seems to have a translucent, brown veil of skin pulled tightly across it like a sheet. Its features seem delicate, almost feminine and when the mouth opens it even seems like the creature is wearing some dark lipstick beneath the veil. It seems about to speak and he leans closer to the grate to hear. But then the light reflects off of something sharp within that mouth and his mind screams a warning at him.

He steps back just in time as a blade dripping with black slime shoots out of the creature's mouth, tearing its way through the grate as though it were nothing more than taut paper. It extends nearly three feet in the air. Not quite far enough to kill him should it connect, but uncomfortable nonetheless.

The creature's intentions no longer a mystery, he holsters the gun and runs forward. There are others, he can hear them as they swing beneath the grate and he can feel the tremor of their weight moving across the floor. Another blade shoots up in front of him and his momentum almost slices him as he tries to stop before running into it. He manages to veer to the side, but loses his footing and falls on the grating.

He lands on his shoulder and the pain curls his fingers as he feels the bruise left by the mannequin in the apartments slam into the metal. He rolls over and stands back up. Finding the gun still in its holster and the screwdriver still tucked into his belt, he starts running again. He can hear the screech of metal all around him as somewhere in the dark the creatures stab their black dripping swords through the grate. He keeps running. Though he can hear them, he does not see any of them anymore. Moreover, the ones he can hear do not seem to be moving at all. He stops and listens. There is a group behind him that sounds faint and there is a group in front of him somewhere that sounds a little louder. Strangely though, neither group seems to be moving towards him. He decides to be thankful for small favors, and is about to continue running until he feels the angle of the grating shift beneath him. _What the hell?_ He wonders. Then an awful thought occurs to him. The creatures are able to stab through the grate and leave a small hole. If they were to stay in one place and make enough holes––_Jesus, they're trying to cut the grate away!_ He thinks even as it begins to slope backwards. Hebegins to run as fast as he can, no longer concerned about inadvertently skewering himself.

Again, the timing of his escape is not particularly close to the objective observer. The grate does not collapse all that fast and at his current pace he has ample time to clear the damaged section. But to James, all alone in the dark, the screeching grate is the sound of Death coming to seize him by its talons and spirit him away to some desolate place where he will never see Mary again. He jumps over a line of holes in the grate, dodging another sword in the process and continues at a dead run with the shriek of ripping metal echoing around him as somewhere behind him the grating falls into oblivion.

There is one last creature before he finds the door. The blade that emerges from its mouth is nearly the entire length of James's body. It then disappears beneath the grating. He can now seethe brass doorknob emerge from the darkness in front of him. He pauses for a moment and then quickly sidesteps as the enormous blade shoots up again. As it does, the creature makes a verbal noise that almost sounds like, "_Don't_". Part of him wants to pause and analyze this but practicality overrules this and so he ignores it for the moment, grabs the doorknob and turns it. He pushes the door open and jumps across the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind him and the radio is finally silent.

It is still dark, but the taste of the air and the sound of his breath tell him he is outside once again. The door behind him has disappeared and he leans against the cold concrete wall to catch his breath. He looks at the map again. He is now on Munson and he should be no more than two blocks from Rosewater Park.

He travels up the silent street. He passes the gates to Blue Creek Apartments. He notes in passing that they are closed and locked with rusty chains. He arrives at the west entrance to the park. The east entrance is blocked by another concrete wall, but it is of no importance. He passes under the stone arch and stops. He is not certain where to look specifically. _The "praying woman" has to be one of the statues_, he thinks. But he is unfamiliar with the precise location of every statue in the park.

He starts his search in the rose garden just to the right of the entrance. The bushes no longer bloom and are really nothing more than twisting tangles of thorns. He finds statues of the first mayor of Silent Hill and the founder of Alchemilla Hospital. They are however, both men. The statues are worn, dulling their facial features, they both have more than a few cracks in them and it is difficult to read the plaques below them.

He goes north from the rose garden to where there is a series of hedged grass lawns each with a bench and a statue. The first statue is that of Patrick Chester riding atop a horse. His statue too, is cracked and worn. The statue in the next lawn, however, is the one he has been looking for.

It is a woman in a robe. She is on her knees with her hands pressed together in prayer and a pair of feathered wings flairs out from her back. Unlike the other statues, this one is as smooth and as grey as the day it was unveiled. The expression on the woman's face however, is not one of spiritual bliss, but rather malevolent triumph. The eyes have been carved with a concavity designed to give the optical illusion that their gaze follows every movement in front of her.

The plaque below indicates her name is Jennifer Carroll. The rest is worn away. There is no need for him to know in another lifetime she was my faithful servant. He walks behind her pedestal, doing his best to avoid her stony gaze. The grass is dead and damp, muffling the sound of his footsteps. He sees the disturbed earth not far from the statue. It looks much like a covered gopher hole.

He has no tools to dig with and he must use his hands. The box is not buried deep however; Jonathan did not possess any tools either and he had less resolve than James. But to be fair, Jonathan was never a real person.

It is a small metal box, brown with rust and something inside it rattles as he takes it out of the hole. The lid will not open and he cannot see any latch or lever. However, the hinges are held in place with screws. He brushes off his hands and pulls the screwdriver from his belt. It takes some effort to get them moving on the rusty hinges, but once he does they come out easily. With the hinges off he is able to pull the lid open.

There is a bronze key inside. It is not a modern, saw-toothed key, but a slender antique key with a slightly dimpled square head. SH HIST is engraved on it.

He looks at his map. The Silent Hill Historical Society is located on Nathan Avenue, though it is a long way down for someone on foot. Something else catches his eye though. The boat docks are located near the Historical Society. _Screw the abyss_, he thinks, _if I can make it to the docks, I can probably find a boat to the hotel_.

That, of course, is not true, but all in good time.

He folds the map back up and puts the key in his pocket. He walks away from the lawn, leaving the box behind. Jennifer Carroll's gaze follows him as he goes.

A mannequin attacks him just as he exits the stone archway of the park, but he has come to expect this and he easily evades its charge. Afterwards, the run down Nathan Avenue is relatively quiet. He catches the occasional glimpse of a nurse or a spitter, but they cannot keep pace with him. He begins to smell trees and knows he is nearing the Historical Society. He stops again to catch his breath; running all the way from Rosewater has taken its toll. His mouth is dry, but there is little he can do about that now. The smell of the trees and the silence of the night was once a wondrous thing for him. But now, knowing what things lurk in the dark, it is all he can do to keep from shivering. He walks the rest of the way to the society. It takes him longer, but he is able to conserve his energy and he encounters nothing on the road.

The same cannot be said of the parking lot. There is a pedestrian entrance to the walled lot around the side which he uses, as the main entrance is somewhat further down the road. This quite possibly saves his life.

The radio is almost deafening, but the spitter has its back to him and was probably never aware of the bullet that brought about the end to its brief existence in Silent Hill. The mannequin is faster, but not really fast enough. Three shots. The sound of the radio changes to a high pitched whine. His eyes search for the nurses but he cannot immediately see them in the darkness.

He advances cautiously and makes out the form of the first nurse marching towards him in the center of the parking lot. While he shoots it down fairly quickly, it distracts him from the second nurse slinking in the shadows to his right _and_ the two nurses creeping towards him from the main entrance.

He walks to the body of the first nurse. With the radio still making noise he is uncertain of its death. When he sees the blood flowing from its wounds he quickly realizes his mistake. He looks left first. Nothing. He looks right and sees the second nurse lunging at him. He has no time to evade it and shoots twice, hoping to derail some of the nurse's momentum. The blow lands on top of his shoulder. The initial impact is hard, but the bullets have jerked the nurse back, forcing it to pull the swing. Rather than continuing on to smash his collar bone, the pipe is quickly withdrawn. The hit is painful, but adrenaline is surging in him and he ignores the pain, though another problem has presented itself.

One bullet for the spitter, three for the mannequin, four for the first nurse and now two in the second nurse; the clip is empty, and there is no time for him to change it. Before the nurse can swing again, he rams into it with his good shoulder, knocking it flat on the ground. It starts to rise but he kicks its twitching head and it falls flat again. This gives him enough time to drop the empty clip. He jumps over the nurse, intending to run behind it and, hopefully, give himself enough time to load one of the full clips.

The second nurse however, is killed when a third nurse smashes it with a pipe. The pipe whistles through the air where James had been standing less than a second ago and lands on the second nurse's chin, shattering it. He begins to back away from the third nurse when a fourth nurse flanks him on the right, moving fast. He bolts left and fishes around in his pocket trying to get a hold of one of the clips. The third nurse, with a sudden display of agility, jumps in front of him and swings the pipe. He ducks under it while his hand closes around the spare magazine in his pocket. He sidesteps the next swing and pulls the magazine out. Before he can put it in though, the fourth nurse has found its way towards him and lunges. He sidesteps that as well, but the third nurse is already swinging at him again.

_They're keeping me busy_, he thinks, _making sure I can't load the gun and_ _trying to tire me out. It's going to work too if I don't do something_. He jumps just barely out of range of the nurse's swing and then kicks it in the shoulder. The fourth nurse follows up on him with an overhead strike that he manages to sidestep. The third nurse did not recover from his kick fast enough though and he has just enough time to shove the magazine into the gun and slide a round into the chamber before it comes at him again. He dodges the swing and then starts shooting.

With all the adrenaline pumping, his fire discipline is not good and he empties the clip without realizing it. But it does not matter. By the time the clip is empty the third nurse is dead. The fourth one lies face up on the ground, trying to get up, but its hips seem unable to move, the hand that held the pipe is limp and it is simply left futilely attempting to push itself up with its good arm. He walks over to it and, with a viciousness that They all seem to possess, he stomps on its face, smashing its button nose. He stomps again and again until he hears a crack from somewhere in its neck. He carefully backs away and the radio is silent.

He stands there panting. Cold sweat is dripping from his brow and there is a dull ache in the soles of his feet. The air around the bodies is thick with the smell of iodine. He regains his breath despite the smell and retrieves his dropped clip and reloads both it and the empty one. He looks at the fours nurses and shakes his head. _If I'd come in through the main entrance_, he thinks, _I'd have been ambushed by the two nurses, and wouldn't have been able to fight them off before the other two got there. Not to mention the mannequin moves faster than the nurses_.

If his memory is correct, the way to the docks is adjacent to the main society building and there are usually boats of several varieties moored there at any one time. But, as I have said before, things are never that easy for Them. The path to the dock is blocked with an iron gate. There is a notice hung on the gate in red letters:

**PATH IS OUT. VISITORS TO DOCKS PLEASE USE MUSEUM ENTRANCE**

He bangs his fist on the notice board once in irritation though, in a small way, he has been expecting this. He looks around briefly to see if there is another way around the gate. Naturally, he finds nothing, so he leaves the gate and moves towards the main building of the Historical Society.

The Silent Hill Historical Society was originally a large house and were it not for the sign, the parking lot, and the expansions on the rear side of the building, one might think that some retired couple must still live there, drinking lemonade on a backyard porch while watching the boats on Toluca Lake in the afternoon and admiring the sunrise in the morning.

The door is old but in surprisingly good condition. Indeed, unlike the rest of the town, the building does not seem to be in a state of ruin at all. He takes the key out and uses iton the lock. The door opens with a friendly creak, unusual for a town like this, and he steps inside.

Past the doorway is a small foyer with a wooden counter that holds a cash register and numerous brochures for various activities in Silent Hill. The walls are painted in a pleasant wood stain and are decorated with assorted antiques. There is a wooden bench against the wall on the right. At the far end is another wooden door marked "Museum"

He looks over the counter and sees below a small refrigerator and various packaged snack food. He walks around to the back of the counter and opens the refrigerator. From the feel of the air inside, it has not been on for some time. It does, however, contain several undisturbed sixteen-ounce bottles of water. He takes one for himself and sits down on the bench. He pulls the protein bar out of his pocket and opens the wrapper. Having been in there since Woodside Apartments, the bar has been mashed completely out of shape by nearly every fall, crash, and roll James has had since, but this is of no consequence to him. He unscrews the cap to the bottled water and takes a sip. The water is lukewarm, but his mouth is dry enough not to be bothered with mundane things such as temperature.

_Déjà vu_, he thinks to himself, _it's like I'm back at Woodside_. Indeed, the scene is not unlike the lobby at the apartments. He sits on a bench, resting after a lengthy traverse in the town, wanting to close his eyes and rest, rather than wonder just what lies ahead of him in this building.

I let him have his rest. They always seem to need it.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

He eats the protein bar and drinks the water in silence. He remembers coming here with Mary once. It was not much of a museum, three rooms or so with landscape paintings, portraits, artifacts from the town's history, and assorted newspaper and book articles. Most of the town's original documents were stored in a vault below the main building, but that area was off limits to the general public.

He finishes the protein bar and gets up. There is a small bathroom behind the counter. While the electricity is off, the water is still running and he makes use of the facility. After finishing, he takes a brief look at the small map of the Society next to the museum door, though it does not tell him anything he does not already know. He opens the door slowly and enters the museum.

The first room concentrates mainly on the history of the very first settlers in Silent Hill and also touches on the Indian tribes that lived in the area before. There are some paintings of the lake, a scale model of the original settlements, a sketch of one of the Indian chiefs and a copy of the first treaty between the settlers and the natives. He gives each item a passing scrutiny but finds nothing unusual so he proceeds to the next room.

The second room is devoted to the town's expansion in the nineteenth century. Many of the town's landscape artists emerged during that time and paintings of various parts of the town literally cover the walls. In the middle of the room is a large glass casing with various antiques, such as the first "Key to the City", hooks used by the various fishermen on Toluca Lake, doctor's tools from the era, and a few documents. He makes an inspection of the articles, the paintings, and the glass case. Amongst the landscapes he finds a curious painting. It depicts no landscape, but rather just a deep, square hole carved out of a stone floor. Unlike the other landscapes, which were done with oils, this painting has been done in acrylic. The style is a very successful photorealism; were it not for the size and the framing, he could almost imagine being able to put his hand through the hole and run his fingers along the rough edges; perhaps that was why it was included in the collection; the artist's choice of material is certainly not noteworthy.

He turns away from the paintings and focuses on the articles. He finds information about Brookhaven hospital and the plague that hit Silent Hill in 1880 and mention of Toluca Prison which was once located near the Historical Society. In fact, most of the original docks were built by the convicts. The foundations of the original prison buildings however, had been poorly constructed and were placed too close to the lake. Consequently, most of them began to sink underneath the wet soil. A state prison opened up near Brahms in 1929, eliminating the need for an incarceration facility of Toluca's size so the sunken parts were never rebuilt. The remaining building was used as a temporary jail until 1965 when it too began to sink and was condemned. After a lengthy consultation period where various financial and environmental studies were conducted, the city council decided it was not worth the cost to tear down the building and so it was left to join its companions beneath the damp earth. Under other circumstances, James would find such lore fascinating. But his mind is on other things and he goes into the third room.

The third room once contained information about the town's recent history and the works of some of the local artists and authors. Now however, it just contains a single painting that covers the back wall and a large hole in the right hand wall.

The painting is known as "Misty Day, Remains of the Judgment" and it once depicted a man in a red hood and white robe offering his benediction to a host of people in blue smocks kneeling in prayer during a sunset that parts clouds and burns away the mist over Toluca Lake. The common misconception was that the man was a priest of the Christian faith. In fact, he was a judge and executioner in the cult that once worshipped me. The people in blue smocks are accused apostates; they pray for mercy. Some shall receive it, some shall not. The painting was a gift from an unknown artist to the town hall. But those were the days when the town chose to deny its past, so the leaders of this town started the fallacy that the priest was from a now defunct branch of the Roman Catholic Church. The artist was paid to keep his silence about its true nature. It sat in the town hall for a long time. When this museum was established and the painting transferred, the town council wanted the memory of the cult erased from the town's past. So they made the painting's false origins official. Then they gave my church only a passing mention. A mere footnote in an article about the town's religious figures; they shoved it aside like some…

…No, never mind, it is not important and I am not bitter about it; there is no bitterness in death, only silence and rest.

The fact remains, however, that this museum is still a monument to denial. To find the truth, I make Them go beyond it. "Misty Day" now serves as a warning post to all Lost Souls about to enter. It is different for every one of Them who looks upon it; always depicting some abstract expression of whatever dark deed lurks within Their subconscious.

When he enters, the lights are out, veiling both "Misty Day" and the hole in darkness. The flashlight shows the brown carpeting is covered in dust. So much dust that it makes him sneeze when he first steps on the carpet. He looks around him and sees the empty spaces on the walls to his left and right. "Hmm." He says aloud. Then his eye catches something, something in the dust on the floor.

Footprints. James is not a tracking expert, but he recognizes the outlines created in the dust as having been made by a pair of shoes; in fact two different pairs of shoes. The first, and larger of the pair, leaves a worn tread that suggests some kind of athletic shoe. The second pair is smaller, though not by much. They do not leave any tread, just an outline in the dust and an impression on the carpet. James takes several steps into the room, careful this time to not kick up more dust. He then turns around and looks at his own footprints. They are roughly the same size as the first pair, but they do not leave a tread. His conclusion—though the logic behind it is not terribly sound—is that the athletic shoe wearer must be substantially heavier than him.

He follows the prints through the room. The two pairs cross paths and overlap a few times. He guesses that the they were made at different times from one and other. The prints stop abruptly just over midway through the room. It is then that James sees "Misty Day". Or rather, his manifestation of "Misty Day".

It had once been his favorite painting and was indeed once the centerpiece of the museum's gallery. Despite the artist's lack of integrity, he was in fact, quite a brilliant painter. The crimson color of the sunset and its reflection off of the lake matched perfectly; the texture of the clothing on the priest and the accused was exquisite; and the detail on each individual face was nothing short of magnificent. But, to James, the painting has undergone a strange transformation. The types of materials used and the brushwork are still the same. But the content is not at all like he remembers.

It now has a backdrop of reddish mist. All around the blood-red ground are bodies on dirty hospital beds with white sheets draped over them. Suspended in the air are steel bed frames that hang at a vertical angle. Bodies in white sheets are strapped to them and they seem to dangle in the mist like corpses on the gallows. There is one similarity however; the priest still stands offering his benediction to the hordes of covered bodies. But his appearance is somewhat different. His robe is covered in blood and his crimson hood has been pulled over his face completely. It is stiff and rigid, and the top ends in a sharp point. The hand he offers is not empty, but rather holds a large black knife. At his side is a red spear which possesses an obsidian blade that gleams in the light.

_My God,_ he thinks, _it's him…Pyramid Head_. His mind tries to make sense of this. Why does a monster that haunts his steps appear in a painting that must have been done over a hundred years ago? But he does not have enough pieces yet to put the puzzle together, so his mind simply stows this bit of information away.

He turns his attention back to the footprints. Strangely, both sets show that they too stopped to look at the painting. Then they continued to his right. He turns and where there was once an "Employees Only" door that led to the town documents storage, there is now the gaping hole in the wall. It reminds him strangely of the hole inroom 208 in that it looks as though something tore through the wall itself, though there is no debris on the floor. Both sets of prints lead into the hole.

He moves forward, shining the light into the hole. Beyond is a tunnel that seems to be composed of greenish brick. It slopes downwards into darkness, far past the range of the flashlight. He tentatively takes a step inside. The air is dry, musty and cold. He moves further in, his steps are strangely quiet as he moves. The tunnel slopes gently down and the air tastes more and more stale the further he goes.

The walk seems endless. His mind tries to break the monotony by finding shapes in the random texture of the bricks the same way one looks for objects in the clouds. It requires a bit more imagination and the shapes are banal to begin with; cats, boats, birds, shoes and various other ordinary objects that mortals seem to think are so fascinating when they are found while gazing on meaningless surfaces. But then one shape jumps out at him. In the texture of the bricks he sees an eye, an eye wide with fright. The memory of Maria's eye suddenly flashes in his mind, but this eye is different. It is not covered in blood and there are three strands of light brown hair hanging over it. He pushes the thought from his mind as he finally arrives at the bottom of the tunnel in front of a rusty iron door.

The handle is heavy, but as he pulls it open, he notices fresh scrapings on the door frame and its hinges do not make a loud creaking noise the way they should if it had been closed for very long. _This door's been opened recently_, he thinks.

The room it opens to could have once been a front office for the document storage area. The walls used to be white, but some neglect has caused the paint to turn grey. There is a heavy wood door on the far side of the room. There is a desk in front of it and a support pillar just to the right of the desk. A small yellowed piece of paper lies on the desk. The bottom edge is torn. On the note, in faded blue ink, is written "September 11, 1820 Prisoner Number: C-221". Next to it lays a white sticky note, written in brisk cursive, "_File this back into the Toluca Prison archive. Let me know if the other half turns up_."

There is nothing else on or in the desk. He opens the wooden door on the far side of the room and static begins to play on the radio. There is a hallway beyond and it was once lined with doors that led to each category of documents. Now there is only one door on the far end, guarded of course, by a spitter. The spitters have become less of a threat now that his aim has improved and this one is no different. But he does wait for it to gurgle once, trying to find a word somewhere within that deep throated sound. But he still cannot make sense of it and shoots the writhing figure down.

He goes to the door at the end and opens it. Beyond is a hexagonal room composed of rock walls and a stone floor. In the very center of the room is a deep hole carved into the stone. A hole he has seen before. The walls were not there of course, but the hole is otherwise identical to the one in the painting he saw in the second room right down to the very texture of the stone. He walks to the hole and shines the light down, but it is unable to penetrate the darkness below. He examines the rest of the room. The walls are rough and the rock is almost sharp in some places. There are a few pebbles scattered about the base of the wall. The ceiling is about eight feet high and also composed of rock. There is no way forward.

Except the hole, of course.

He does not like his options. He shines the light back into the hole, but again he cannot see a bottom. He walks over to one of the walls and picks up a pebble. He goes back to the hole and lets it drop. To his surprise, it hits bottom almost immediately after disappearing into the dark. He is slightly puzzled as to why the flashlight cannot find the bottom, but his decision to drop down the hole is slightly easier given its shallowness.

He takes a seat on the edge of the hole and lets his feet dangle. He pats himself down to make sure that everything is secure. "Damn." He mutters as he realizes he has lost the screwdriver at some point, most likely when he was fighting the nurses in the parking lot. He regrets the loss, but decides it is too much trouble to go all the way back up the tunnel and look for it.

Putting his weight on his palms, he slowly lowers himself down the hole in order to minimize the distance between him and the floor. He holds there for a second, takes a deep breath, and then lets himself drop.

The fall is uncomfortable but short. His back rubs against the edge of the hole as he descends and the surface is less than smooth. His landing is soft, in part because the ground beneath him is damp, almost muddy and in part because it seems like he has only dropped five feet or so. He checks that nothing slid loose during the fall and then looks around. He is in a circular room perhaps twenty feet in diameter. The walls are made of large stone bricks that have been stacked together and sealed by mortar. Given the dampness of the earth, it might have been some kind of an indoor well at one time. He looks above him, he cannot see the ceiling or the hole he came through which is odd; considering the how short his fall was, the ceiling should not be much higher than his head.

The air that was stale before is now _very_ stale and with some alarm he realizes that there is no exit to this room. Panic sets in as he starts examining the walls for some kind of hidden door. _This can't be a dead end_, he tries to reassure himself. But his search reveals nothing. He takes a deep breath of stale air and then calms himself. _Okay, I must have missed something, I'll look again_. He starts looking at the stone bricks again. He goes over them inch by inch this time. He still cannot see anything. Instead, he feels something.

On his cheek, is a cool, tingling sensation that can only be a small breeze. He holds his fingers in front of his face trying to feel the source of the breeze. It comes from between two bricks. As he looks closely at them, he realizes that there is no mortar between them. He puts his fingers against the cold stone and presses firmly. The stone moves. He begins examining the surrounding bricks. Dozens of them have no mortar holding them together. Working his way from the top, he begins pulling out the bricks one by one, starting from the top. The bricks are not as heavy as they look, though by the time he has made a hole big enough to step through, his arms and shoulders are burning.

He stretches and rubs his muscles before stepping through the hole. The ground beyond is wet and muddy. The walls are composed of smaller brown bricks and the construction pattern is different from the well. The air is not as stale as it was in the well, but it is not particularly fresh either. The new tunnel almost reminds him of a sewer, but the smell of the place gives no indication that human waste ever flowed through here.

He walks on, he shoes squelching in the mud. The tunnel seems to have caved in after he goes another twenty yards or so but to his left is a set of old concrete steps leading up from the muck and into a narrow hallway; probably as part of an old service entrance. The floor above them is metal grating with small, square shaped holes. He walks up them and stops as white noise starts coming from the radio. The hallway is too narrow for him to avoid the creature's spittle, so he does not want to risk going forward. He reasons that the hallway's size could work in his favor though if he strikes first. He could fire blindly; one of the shots would be bound to hit the spitter. But he does not like the idea of wasting ammunition.

He hears the gurgle somewhere in the darkness ahead of him and decides on a compromise. He fires four shots, directed more or less down the center of the hallway. He hears the creature shriek and he advances as quickly as he dares. It lays facedown on the ground, writhing in its skin and spitting its caustic vapor through the grate. He is tempted to try once again to find the word it keeps trying to say, but the stale air seems to augment the bile-like scent of the creature's spray, and he puts a round through its head before the stench becomes too overpowering. He then carefully steps over the spitter's body. The smell is so bad he holds his breath until he is clear of the corpse.

The hall continues for another fifteen feet, ending at two steel doors; one at the end of the hall and one on the wall just to the left. The one on the left is ajar and he quietly steps into the room. It had probably once been a storeroom for maintenance equipment, but it is almost empty now. Almost.

Two paintings line the wall to his left. The first is in black and white and depicts the gallows of the prison. A throng of onlookers watch as a man with a black hood draped over him stands on top of the scaffold with a noose around his neck and his arms bound. The painting is simply titled "Prison Gallows". The one next to it was done using a technique of mixing brown and white paints to produce shading. Ordinarily, the artist would then add color by glazing over the dried paint, but, for reasons lost to time, they did not complete that phase. It depicts one man being impaled through the neck with a spear and another man with a wire coiled around his neck. Behind them stand men in uniforms standing at attention. The painting is titled "Skewering And Strangling". Below is a short note about two types of illegal executions that were sometimes performed during the prison's less reputable days.

The flashlight catches a sparkle of silver in the corner. He walks over and sees a key lying on the ground. It is round, with three blunt teeth. Attached to it is a small steel cylinder with some writing engraved on the length of it. He picks it up and looks at the writing. The letters read from top to bottom in a spiral:

'_Tis _

_doubt _

_which _

_leadeth_

_thee _

_to _

_purgatory_

"Hmm." He says to himself and pockets the key.

He opens the other door. Inside is a small white walled room with the same grating on the floor. However, near the center is a latch with a keyhole. He takes the key out and puts it in the lock. The latch pulls up and he is able to swing part of the grate back and expose the floor, or rather the lack thereof.

Beneath the grate is nothing but impenetrable darkness. He fishes out one of the keys from the hospital—the one for the roof—and lets it drop. It falls out of sight. He hears nothing. He takes out another key—the one for the basement—and lets that one drop as well. He waits nervously, straining to hear some sound, some sign of descent. But there is nothing but silence from below.

"You've gotta be kidding." He says aloud. But he remembers the words on the key:

"'_Tis doubt which leadeth thee to purgatory"_

_This is nuts, this is very fucking nuts_, he thinks even as he is patting himself down, making sure everything is secure before he jumps. Then he walks to the edge. He takes a deep breath and then exhales slowly. He takes another deep breath, looks down, takes a step, and descends into a part of the Abyss.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

He disappears into the dark. He feels air rushing around him and his stomach rises to his throat. He is about to let out a scream when suddenly, it is all over. He lands gently on his feet, as though he has dropped no more than two feet. It is almost completely dark and it smells of metal and wood. He shines his light around. The floor is dusty and grey. To his left and right are long wooden tables flanked with benches. The table to his left has a long crack at the center of the far end that runs along the grain and terminates at the near right corner. One of the benches on the table to his right has been cracked down the center and overturned. Both tables have dirty plastic trays scattered about. There are also bent and rusted spoons and forks on the floor. Behind him are an overturned water cooler and a dirty concrete wall. Displayed on the wall is a large black and white photograph of a pristine cafeteria; apart of course, from the thick, steel bars on the windows.

From somewhere near the back comes a wheezing sound. He pulls the gun out, though he leaves the safety on; the radio has not made a sound since his descent. He proceeds down the center of the room, shining his flashlight to the right and left. The rows of ruined tables continue. On the wall to his left is an old blackboard that gives the menu:

**Main: Spaghetti Bolognaise**

**Sides: Mashed Potatoes and peas**

**Notice: Since your good behavior after the Coltrane incident, the Warden has decided to allow the use of metal cutlery in the cafeteria again. Any prisoners abusing this will have their privileges suspended and be confined to solitary.**

He hears the wheezing noise again and from the rhythm he realizes it is someone laughing. James turns the light towards the end of the room. There is a double door at the end and just to the left of it, behind the last table; he can see something moving on the floor. He steps over a rusted coffee dispenser and moves around a cart stacked with dirty trays. The thing on the floor laughs again.

James steps around the last table and the flashlight falls on Eddie's obese frame lying against the wall. In the harsh beam, his face appears bloated and his pupils are contracted, giving his light brown eyes a sickly yellow gleam in the light. His shirt is bunched up in the middle, exposing the hairy, white flesh of his stomach. His right hand holds an enormous black revolver. The largest revolver James had ever seen before was his father-in-law's .41 magnum and with a slight chill he recalls his commentary on the magnum, _"Hell James, this thing's something my uncle left me. I keep practice with it, but I'd never use it on someone. You'd blow a hole right through the sorry bastard and probably hit some poor old lady behind 'em."_ The gun in Eddie's hand is a great deal larger and it makes him nervous as he receives an inkling of how psychotic Eddie truly is.

"Eddie?" He asks, "What are you doing here?"

Eddie just gives another wheezing laugh and says in an airy voice, "Ya know somethin' James? Killin' a person ain't no big deal. You just put the gun to their head…" he points the gun at his head and cocks the hammer, "…Pow!" The last word is more of a whisper that turns into another wheezing laugh as he takes the gun away from his head and raises the hammer back up.

"What are you talking ab—?" James stops mid-sentence as he catches sight of the corpse on the bench. It is a man lying facedown on the table. There is a gaping hole in the back of his head and a large spatter of blood comes out from beneath the his face and nearly covers the width of the table. With some revulsion, James notices that bits of bone and brain are mixed in with the blood. He can see three more bullet holes in the man's back and there is blood pooled on the bench where the man sits.

"Eddie…did you kill him?" James asks, cautiously.

Eddie looks alarmed suddenly, "B-b-but…it-it wasn't my fault!" he blubbers, "He made me do it!" His hands start to shake.

"Calm down Eddie. Just tell me what happened." James tries to sooth him while trying to hide his own suspicions.

"That guy…" Eddie gestures at the corpse with his gun, "…he…he had it coming! I didn't do anything. He just came after me! Besides," his face grows sullen and his voice gets deeper, "he was makin' fun of me with his eyes. Just like that other one…" He looks away, "…popped him too."

"I don't understand." James tries to keep his voice level.

"They were lookin' at me funny, so I had to kill 'em."

"Just for that?"

Eddie looks up at him sharply, "What do ya mean 'Just for that'?"

"I mean, you didn't kill them just for the way they looked at you...did you?"

"Why not?" He lowers his head and looks down at the ground. It seems like he is talking more to himself than to James, "Til now, I always let people walk all over me. Just like that stupid dog..." Another wheezing laugh, "...He had it coming too."

Perhaps Eddie has made some progress with his lying.

"Eddie?"

Eddie suddenly giggles and stands up. "Relax James," he slaps him playfully on the shoulder, "I was just joking. He was dead when I got here. Honest."

Then again, perhaps not.

"Sorry, it didn't seem like much of a joke." James is not sure if he is relieved or even more disturbed by Eddie's change in mood.

"Heh, you gotta lighten up James." Under normal lighting conditions, Eddie's smile might seem sincere. But not here. "Anyway," he continues, "I gotta run." He straightens his shirt and turns to leave.

"You're going out there alone?" James asks.

Eddie's grin is wicked, "Nah, I'm bringing a friend." He says and pats the revolver.

"Okay—" James is about to say something else, but Eddie is already gone, the rusty double doors clanging behind him.

James looks back over at the dead man. _Okay, Eddie has to be telling the truth,_ James tries to delude himself, _this guy was shot in the back of the head. He wasn't looking at Eddie when he died_. But the rational part of his mind is not so easily fooled and it persuades to him to give Eddie plenty of time to get as far away from the cafeteria as possible.

He paces in front of the doors while he waits. Then, on the ground where Eddie lay against the wall, he sees a small orange square. He bends over and picks it up. It is a thin, metallic tablet, not much larger than a postage stamp. There is an engraving on one side in a style that reminds him of some Aztec artwork he once saw. A humanoid creature with a pig's snout is depicted sitting in profile with what appear to be two rectangular clubs in its hands, though they are perhaps meant to symbolize food as the name "Gluttonous Pig" is engraved in the bottom.

With a strange sense of déjà vu, he puts the tablet in his pocket. Seeing nothing else apart from a few more dirty plastic trays and an overturned food cart, he leaves the room.

Outside is a dark hallway. He is certain now that he has fallen into one of the submerged buildings of Toluca Prison. Having been a prison, everything is made of either metal or concrete. Though it clearly has not sunken deep enough into the ground to collapse the structure, the walls nonetheless show stress from having the weight of all that earth above it. There are numerous cracks in both the floor and the walls. Loose soil has seeped into the cracks leaving the floor brown and gritty. The walls too are spotted and have large streaks of rust running down them from various metal beams and pipes in the ceiling. Somewhere in the dark he can hear the occasional creak of rusted metal and water dripping slowly from some distant crack. The air tastes damp and smells of rust.

He starts to turn to his right but he finds his way blocked by a security gate composed of heavy metal bars. Despite being completely covered in rust, the bars are as solid as the concrete walls around it. He heads back up the hallway and it is not long before he begins to hear white noise on the radio. Despite the dirt and the cracks, the hallway _is_ mostly metal and cement so the spitter's gurgle is quite audible from a distance. He advances slowly with the gun raised; he has no chance of avoiding it.

Ahead of him is another rusted security gate, but this one is open. And even as the gate comes into view, the spitter emerges from its frame. Two complications suddenly arise. The first comes as he shoots the spitter down. There is very little to dampen the noise in the hallway, and the sound of the gun firing stings his ears. The second arrives after another spitter emerges from the gate. His aim is off slightly and two bullets miss their mark. One of them strikes the security gate, the other the wall to the left. Both ricochet. The one that hits the wall bounces to the other side and fragments. The fragments bounce back to the left and are finally stopped by the concrete. The bullet that hits the gate however, bounces off another bar and flies back towards James; he feels a rush of warm air as it just misses his right ear.

_Damn_, he thinks, _I'd better keep my aim under control_. One bullet did, however, manage to hit the creature in its head once and it lies atop the first spitter, slowly soaking both of them in their own blood. The radio is silent.

He carefully steps over the bodies. On the other side of the gate is a wooden desk that has managed to survive underground fairly well. On top of it are clipboards and documents with tedious details about the prison. The drawers of the desk are unlocked but empty. He sits down on the desk to reload the gun and to wait for his hearing to return before moving on.

He passes a rusty double door on his right but it refuses to open. Up ahead is another open security gate. The radio comes alive again. The spitter is behind the gate and he does not risk firing now. Then, from somewhere behind it, he hears another gurgle, followed by another after that. _Jesus, three?_ He shoots at the first one, trying carefully to aim at its head. But his first shot misses and his second is too low. He fires twice again. One bullet catches it in the shoulder but the other one is poorly aimed and ricochets off of the bars and back towards him, bouncing off of the walls. The bullet stops before it even gets close to him, but his confidence has been rattled and it has begun to affect his aim.

The spitter is closing in and he decides to start shooting for the larger target of the torso. He will use more bullets that way, but at least they will all end up in the spitter's body. He downs it in three more shots. The next two spitters have come through the gate and step over their fallen brethren without pausing.

He steps back and fires his last three shots and drops the clip. The spitter on the right falters slightly but continues only a step or so behind the one on the left. He shoves in another clip and guns them both down with five bullets left in the clip.

For all intents and purposes, he is completely deaf by now. The only sound that his ears register is a harsh echo of a gunshot. He takes the radio out of his pocket and puts it next to his ear. He cannot hear anything from it, but he does not know if this is because the radio is quiet or if his eardrums have been completely blown out. He advances slowly, the gun in one hand and the radio in the other. The loss of his hearing has affected his balance too and his head sways with every step. He sees nothing beyond the gate except for another wooden desk. For him, this is good. Due to his loss of balance, he badly wants to sit down on something other than rough and sullied concrete. With some effort, he turns back to retrieve the dropped clip and then makes his way to the desk.

The desk is identical to the last one and he sits and reloads the clips as he waits for some semblance of his hearing to return. It is when he is loading the last clip that he begins to make out the metallic clicking of the bullets. He pauses for a bit and listens. Faintly he can hear the sound of dripping water again. He sighs in relief. He stands back up and finds his equilibrium has returned to normal. He then turns his attention to the papers on the desk.

They are mostly reprints from the previous desk; no doubt each guard needed their own copy. He does not come up completely empty-handed however. When he searches the desk drawers he finds a map. The paper is old and slightly stiff, but the ink has not faded and it will still fold conveniently into his pocket. He looks at the layout of the prison.

Two thirds of the prison is devoted to prisoner cells, the remaining third contains administration offices and a visitor area. There is also a courtyard in the east end of the building that contains the gallows and a basement to the west which contains the infirmary and the morgue. The cellblocks are divided into two sections, a corridor running east in the north part of the building and another corridor also running east in the south, both of which contain prisoner cells. There are two hallways running north and south next to the prison cell corridors. One on the east end and one on the west end. Unlike the apartment and hospital maps, this map is not intended for visitors; there is no "You are here" mark and it takes him a few minutes to figure out just where he is. He locates the cafeteria and from there he is able to trace his steps to his current position which is roughly two thirds of the way up the west corridor.

There is no exit visible on the map, though there is a room in the basement marked "DOWN". Given that the building seems to be underground, he doubts any exit door would open. That leaves him with the basement.

He goes north, reasoning that he should be able to get to the west wing of the prison through one of the visiting rooms. They would normally be locked up fairly tight, but given the state of the walls, at least one of the windows would not be secure enough to keep him from forcing it out of its frame.

The two visiting rooms are on the left side of the hall. The first door will not open at all. The rust on the second door puts up some resistance but he finally gets it open. The results are in fact, better than he expected. There is no sign of a security window at all and the desk separating the prisoner from the visitor has been broken down the center, leaving splinters all over the room. He gingerly steps through the gap in the desk and leaves the room.

The visitor's hallway is almost identical to the other hall, though there was an effort to make it a little more aesthetically pleasing by painting the walls a light blue. Unfortunately, a combination of neglect and the underground environment have destroyed most of it and there are only the odd spots here and there that are visible. He can still hear the sound of dripping water some where in the distance.

He proceeds cautiously, but the radio stays quiet. The stairs going down are blocked by another security gate. Unlike the others however, these bars are shiny and new. He tests the gate's strength. It does not budge or even wiggle. He turns to his right and tries the exit door. Nothing.

"Damn." He mutters. He looks back at the security gate. There is a grey box on the wall next to it marked "Emergency Release". He walks over to it and examines it. There are a few rust spots and it looks as though it was meant to be pulled open. On the top is what appears to be a thin, narrow coin slot. _Strange_, he thinks. Then he sees letters carved into the wall next to the box:

_**I like not this prison where I have been laid**_

_**Therefore I'll open not until I am paid**_

_**Thycommon currency I never shall need**_

_**I care only for coins ill-gotten by greed**_

_What the hell does that mean?_ He wonders. He has no coins on him nor does he know where he could find any. Still, there is the lock on the door. _There's got to be a key somewhere here_, he thinks. He looks at the map. The warden's office is the first door on the left back up the hallway.

The door is wood and from the smell, it has begun to rot. There is still a brass plaque with "Warden" engraved on it, though the brass has lost its shine. The door opens easily enough, but the radio immediately begins to emit static. There is another door just in front of him that probably leads to a bathroom. The room opens up to his right. He has the gun ready but he and the spitter round the corner at almost the same time.

The spitter is faster. He puts his free hand in front of his face which keeps the spray from getting anywhere sensitive. But, unfortunately, his hand is covered and the pain is excruciating. "God _damn_ it!" He swears at the creature and shoots in the head twice; once to kill it and once to satiate his rage. The radio is silent. He clenches his teeth and stumbles into the room, looking wildly for something to wipe his hand with. A rusted sink in the corner catches his eye. He holsters the gun and quickly turns the faucet on with his good hand. He has to twist hard but it gives and water begins to run from the faucet. The pressure is weak, not much more than a trickle, and the water is cloudy, but it does begin to rinse away the spittle that burns his hand.

As he stands letting the water run over his hand he looks around the room. The warden's office has withstood the test of time better than the rest of the prison. The walls are spotted with rust, probably from pipes built inside them and the white paint has faded into grey, but there are no signs that the walls themselves have begun to crack. Apart from the dirt and the blood from the spitter, the floor is in relatively good condition. In addition to the rusty sink, the room contains an old television, an oak desk and a mahogany shelf. There is a rusted metal door across from the sink. Something is written on it but the rust makes it difficult for him to read it from the sink.

His hand is clean now and he shakes the excess water off of it. He looks around for something to dry it with and settles for using some blank paper on the desk. It is not as good as a towel or a rag, but it suffices. He looks at the contents of the shelf and desk while he applies the hydrocortisone to his hand. The shelf contains a clue and the desk holds a red herring, but he has no way of knowing the difference yet.

When he finishes healing his hand, he looks to the herring first. It is a magazine article titled "STRANGE TALES OF SILENT HILL: Local folklore alive and well."

**LEGENDS OF THE LAKE**

**Toluca Lake is the town's main attraction. But did you know that this clear, beautiful lake has another side as well?**

**It may seem like just a typical ghost story that you might find in any number of old towns across the country. But in this case, the legend is true.**

**On a fog bound November day in 1918, the Little Baroness, a ship full of tourists, failed to return to port.**

**A newspaper article from back then simply says, "It most likely sunksic for some reason". Despite an extensive police search, not a single fragment of the ship or any of the 14 bodies of the passengers has ever been recovered to this very day.**

**In 1939, an even stranger incident occurred—**

Several pages of the magazine have been torn out and the article is almost finished by the time he reaches an intact page:

**Many corpses rest at the bottom of this lake. Their bony hands reach up towards the boats that pass overhead. Perhaps they reach for their comrades.**

He puts the magazine down and turns his attention to the shelf. It contains mostly financial records for the prison, and medical and criminal histories of the inmates. Most are worn and faded. The clue comes in the form of a diary; no name is given, and many pages are missing, leaving only one entry:

_Prisoners do not feel remorse. In fact, they do not feel themselves to be villains at all. Even the most uneducated brute will use what little words he knows to justify himself._

_And such trifling dreams they have, flourishing even in the darkness. Prisoners, too, are no exception._

_No matter how foul or loathsome one's life and existence may be, human nature is abiding._

_Hmm_, he thinks, _is that what's going on in this town? Is it haunted by spirits from the lake? No, that doesn't seem right. Besides the diary doesn't mention anything like that. But maybe the prisoners…?_ He shakes his head. He still does not have enough information to solve this riddle.

He walks over to the rusted door. He feels some excitement when he reads the word on the door: "ARMOURY". Like most of the rusted doors, this one puts up some resistance when he initially tries to open it, but after a little bit of force it gives easily.

The armory room itself is not all that small, but numerous lockers, shelves, and desks crowd the room, leaving a very cramped floor even for one person alone. There is a crack in the ceiling and the air is too damp for mere dust so everything is covered in a thin layer of grime. He feels a little disappointment because the room, for the most part, has been picked clean. There are two guns on a rack but were left behind because neither is in a workable condition; one has a broken hammer and stock, the other has some sort of corrosion in the barrel. The lockers are empty of the equipment one would expect correctional officers to carry. No riot gear or body armor, pepper spray or mace. He is about to leave when he notices a handle on a bottom drawer seems to be completely devoid of grime.

He pulls the drawer open. Inside is a black metal cylinder, roughly ten inches long. It sits inside a nylon pouch with a belt loop attached to it. Before he examines it closer though, he sees a box of bullets in the upper left corner; unfortunately, when he reaches for it, he finds it is nearly empty, containing only seven bullets. He adds them to his box and notices for the first time that he has lost count of how many shots he fired since the Trick Or Treat box and now only five bullets remain in his own carton. He puts two bullets in his clip and then turns his attention back to the object in the drawer. He takes it out of its pouch and examines it. It has black foam sheathing, making it comfortable in his hand. There is a small line at one end that travels around the circumference of the cylinder. Suddenly it occurs him what this object is. He steps back into the warden's office where he has more space. He holds the cylinder with the line end out and quickly flicks his wrist. With a snap and a click, the end of the cylinder extends about another sixteen inches.

_Hot damn!_ He thinks, _it's_ _a collapsible baton_. He takes a few practice swings; the baton makes a satisfying _whoosh_ each time. A button at the base of the extension collapses it back down. He goes back to the drawer and takes out the nylon pouch and attaches it to his belt and tucks the baton securely into it. The gun is still the preferable weapon, but if he should run out of bullets or lose it somehow, the baton will make a convenient back-up.

You are welcome, James.

He pats the baton and the gun holster; _I'm just a badge and a pair of handcuffs shy of being a real cop_, he thinks to himself. His success is short lived however. A thorough search of the warden's room reveals nothing else. No key to the basement or any thing resembling "**_coins ill-gotten_**". He bangs his fist once against the wall and goes back out into the hall.

The smell of rust returns to his nostrils as he consults his map once again. He ignores the obvious answer and looks at his other options. He could try to smash the release box open with the baton, though he has a feeling that it will not work. He could check the bathrooms; maybe someone dropped something in there; he could see if any of the other visitation rooms are open; perhaps an inmate was given something by a visitor or had given something to a visitor.

He goes to the emergency release box and takes out the baton. He does not extend it though; instead he taps the butt of it against the box, testing its strength. The noise of the metal on metal does not seem to echo inside the box and there is no vibration that one would expect from a thin walled container. He decides his instincts concerning the durability of the box are correct and he proceeds to the bathrooms.

The bathrooms are almost directly across the hall from the warden's office. He tries the men's room first. Were it not for the dirt and water bleeding into the room, this would be one of the cleanest bathrooms he has ever been in. There is no smell of feces or urine or anything to suggest that the toilets have been used since they were last cleaned. That is not to say the bathroom is at all pristine. Every metal surface in this room is dented and covered in rust. Two of the three urinals are missing handles, the doors to all four stalls have been ripped away, and a sink is missing. The toilets themselves are dry and dirty. Still, he diligently searches all around for a key or even coinage of some sort. But there is nothing.

The women's room is next. Its condition is not much different than the men's. Instead of urinals, there is an extra stall and an additional sink, though a chunk of the ceiling has fallen and broken one apart. The stall doors are all missing, except for the last one which is closed and, strangely, locked. He looks at the lock handle and sees fresh scrapings on the metal, done with a very sharp object.

He knocks, but there is no answer from the lost soul hiding within. He puts his ear to the door. At first, it picks up nothing, but after a few seconds he can make out the faint sound of her breath. "Hello?" He calls but, caught in her own nightmare, she will not answer. He listens again, but she halts her breathing and he cannot hear anything this time. _Maybe I imagined it before_, he thinks. He turns to leave, but just as he is about to walk out the door he hears a crash combined with what sounds like a woman's high-pitched scream as she descends to the Labyrinth. The sound rings in his ears and makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He pulls the gun and races back to the fifth stall. But it appears unchanged. "Hello?" He calls again, but there is no answer. He knocks on the door. This time the sound is different. Instead of a deep hollow noise, his knock makes a small, tinny sound as if he was knocking on a metal wall rather than a door. _Okay_, he tells himself, _it's nothing, probably part of the wall caved in; that was the crash; it must've broken one of the metal pipes on the toilet and it made a noise that only sounded like a woman's scream_. He holsters the gun but for some reason he still shivers as he leaves the room with the memory of the scream ringing in his ears.

He goes up the hall, but none of the doors to the remaining visitor rooms will open. He sighs and finally faces the obvious truth: There is no key here; it was probably taken away before the building sank beneath the ground. That only leaves finding something to put in the emergency release box. He looks at the map again.

When looking for things ill-gotten, it is not the guards and visitors that one should look to, but rather with those more familiar with ill-gotten goods. He folds the map and, with some trepidation, heads for the north cellblock.

There is something amusing about this fear They have for the prison. After all, apart from the uniforms, there is little difference between Them and the criminals that once dwelled behind those iron bars.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The door to the north cellblock area was once black, but time and water have now added the red tinge of rust to it. He pulls the gun out, unsure of what to expect in the corridor on the other side. The door is heavier than it looks; having been built with intention of containing rioting prisoners, every measure was taken to augment its strength, making it is slow to open.

"Cellblock" is not the first word that enters his mind when he sees the hall beyond. He feels "dungeon" is more apt and if one is thinking purely in terms of aesthetics, I would agree. The concrete wall on the left has been stained black from the dirty water that has been oozing in from the windows and cracks in the ceiling. On his right are the thick, rusty bars of the first six-by-twelve foot cell. There is no number on the outside, but the map labels it N1. He shines the light in the cell. The walls, ceiling, and floor are completely black, though whether this is by design or simply the ravages of time, he cannot tell. The light is not able to reach the full length of the cell so the only object he can see is a small cot. More out curiosity rather than a desire to enter, he tries the cell door but the rust seems to have effectively welded it to the floor and it does not budge.

The emptiness of the cell gives him an eerie feeling, perhaps generated by his knowledge of the prison's history; in times long past, the inmates lived here; thieves, rapists, and murderers all touched these bars and slept in cots like the one he sees before him. They sat, stood, slept, and shat behind those bars until the day a parole board decided they had paid their debt to society and released them…or perhaps not...the courtyard and its scaffold are only a little ways beyond the east door. Perhaps this was Death Row and men waited here, counting off the days until their last appeals were rejected, all the while listening as each day, the guards came and took one of the others to the gallows, until, finally, their turn arrived and the hangman's noose carried them from this world to the next.

He pulls his mind away from such macabre thoughts. He continues to the next cell when he begins to hear static on the radio. He raises the gun and walks forward, his eyes wary. The radio grows louder and he sees movement on his right, inside one of the cells, N4. A spitter is inside, pacing about and seemingly unaware of his presence. It pauses suddenly while facing away from him and the writhing beneath its skin intensifies. He can almost see the outlines of forearms and hands pushing out from inside. It then gurgles and spits, but what emerges from its mouth this time is not vapor, but thick brown liquid that simply dribbles down its front. It then continues pacing again, circling around the cell twice and stopping towards the back, just barely visible. It gurgles and retches again. This time he can make out a single syllable before it is cut off by the spit.

—_Ja— _

He casts a glance down the hallway to be sure there are no other monsters coming towards him and then he positions himself closer to the cell. It stinks of bile, and he realizes that the floor is covered in the brown fluid that flows from its mouth. The spitter circles the cell twice again, this time stopping in front of the cot. It thrashes inside its membrane again before letting out another syllable.

—_Do— _

But before it can finish the word, it vomits another stream of liquid. It circles again, this time stopping in front of the bars. Despite its previous patterns, James panics when he sees the mouth open and without thinking, he shoots it in the head. The blast echoes all the way down the hall. With that feminine cry, the spitter falls to the ground and splashes in the liquid before lying still.

The static from the radio fades, but it is not silent. It emits a murmuring noise—a noise that echoes from down the hall as well. He keeps the gun ready and walks down the cellblock. He passes cell N6 which is open, but he only glances in long enough to see that whatever is making the sound is not in that cell. The murmuring sound grows louder both on the radio and in the hall. It is coming from cell N8. With such proximity the sound is no longer a murmur but a chant.

—_Ssssseduuuuuhkttrissssssss—_

He shines the flashlight in the cell, but he cannot see anything. The cot is there and the bench is there, but there is no sign of the cell's occupant or even that the cell is occupied. Nothing except a slow deep voice.

—_Ssssseduuuuuhkttrissssssss_—

The sound comes from the darkness at the back of the cell. "Hello?" He calls, though at this point, he does not truly expect an answer. The thing simply responds with the same chant.

—_Ssssseduuuuuhkttrissssssss_—

He goes as close as he dares to the front of the cell and strains his eyes to try to see something in the back of the cell. But there is nothing; nothing other than that ominous voice.

—_Ssssseduuuuuhkttrissssssss_—

He moves on, though he never turns his back to the cell completely until he reaches the end of the hallway. Apart from the chant, which has settled back into a murmur, he hears nothing. The last cell, N10, is open and he shines the light inside. Scraps of paper lay strewn about and there is a drawing pad lying at the far end of the cell. The very back of the cell contains a metal toilet that has completely turned to rust and a sink that has aged no better than the toilet. On the bed, propped up against the wall, are two watercolor paintings. The first was done completely in black and shows a stick-figure girl with long hair and a cape. She is flying over several vertical rectangles that are meant to be buildings. The brushwork is amateurish and the distorted proportions make it look as though it was painted by a child. And, in a way, it was. The artist titled it "Girl in Flight".

—_Ssssseduuuuuhkttrissssssss_—

The second painting is of a house. It consists mainly of black lines, showing a two-story home with a triangular roof. Unlike the last painting, the lines are perfectly straight and the house itself almost looks like an architectural blueprint done in black. But in one of the windows is another stick figure. Its circular head hangs out of a second story window. Its mouth is a frown and dots representing tears come down from its eyes. The house has been painted over with what looks like blood, though real blood would have dried brown and this substance has retained its red sheen. The paint curls up into pointed spires above the house, resembling flames. And indeed, the painting is titled "Burning Boy". At the bottom of the painting, roughly on the house's front lawn, are three damp spots. They only strike him as odd because as far as he can determine, there is no water dripping into this cell. Moreover, they are circular; they landed on a completely perpendicular angle to the painting, which could not have happened if it had been propped up the whole time it was here. _Someone else was touched this painting recently_, he thinks but he is not quite sure what to make of it.

—_Ssssseduuuuuhkttrissssssss_—

Between the two paintings lays a small square tablet, not unlike the one he found in the cafeteria. This one has a slight greenish cast to it however. The engraving is again done in a style that reminds him of Aztec artwork. It depicts a woman lying or perhaps sitting on a throne or bed with her arms open and enticing. Her hair flows out from behind her to cover the entire upper half of the tablet. She is completely nude from the waste down and her legs are bent and spread apart. No genitalia have been engraved though, making her legs little more than an inverted V. "Seductress" is carved at the bottom. He frowns and takes out the "Gluttonous Pig" tablet and compares them. They are different colors, but the material and artistry are the same. He puts them both in his pockets and leaves the cell.

It is only then that he notices the murmuring has stopped.

He backtracks to N6 and enters it. The basic set up is much the same as N10, but this cell is littered with books. They are old and the damp air has not treated them well; many covers have rotted and their ink has run. Some are no more than slimy wads of paper with ink stains. Some though, are in reasonable condition. He looks at a few titles. "_Summoning of the Demon_," "_The Blood Swamp Grimoires_," and "_Introduction to Black Magic_". Another book has an illegible title but contains a pentagram on the cover. He thumbs through a few of them, but for the most part the text seems to be in a language he cannot understand.

There is one other thing in the room. A wax doll sits on the cot. It is supposed to be a man, but with its bloated head, small undefined arms, large blank eyes, and hunched posture, it resembles a grey fetus more than anything else. He is about to leave it when he suddenly gets an idea. He breaks off the arms and holds them in his palms which he then presses together. He blows hot breath onto them occasionally and waits for his hands to warm the wax until it is soft. He then quickly rolls them into two balls and sticks one in each of his ears. He presses them in until they start to mold to the shape of his ear and then he lets them set. He snaps his fingers a few times by each ear, testing to see if the wax has any effect on his hearing. The sound of his fingers is dulled but not completely muffled. _Well, not as good as real ear plugs but, under the circumstances, better than nothing_, he thinks.

I am somewhat struck by James's ingenuity. The books and the wax doll are, in fact, nothing more than trinkets left behind by a convict who dared to use the knowledge contained in one of the books. I believe his body now lies below in the basement. But I am digressing. James's idea is a cunning one. But of course, if he were not a cunning man, he would never have been Called.

He finds nothing else of interest in the cell and leaves. He looks at the map again. He can enter the east corridor, but, remembering his purpose in coming to the cellblocks, he checks the doors of every cell, part of him hoping that he will find something to open the basement door letting him leave this bleak place. But another part of him hopes none of them open so that he does not have to set foot in one of those terrible places again.

All of them are shut and the more timid part of him is relieved. I am, however, always inclined to punish timidity. The door at the east end of the hall is identical to the one at the west and it too is slow to open. But this gives him plenty of warning as white noise erupts from the radio.

There are two spitters just on his right. He shoots them down. The gun blasts are loud, but the wax takes the edge off them. Seven in the clip. The door swings shut behind him exposing the three spitters on his left. He backs down the hall, gunning down another as he does. Five in the clip. He begins to aim for the next one when he hears a forbidding noise in the dark behind him.

More gurgling.

He whirls around to see two more spitters approach him from the south. He puts them down with two shots each. One in the clip. He fires his last bullet up the corridor, hoping for a lucky shot while he quickly changes magazines. Unfortunately he does not get his lucky shot. Worse still, there is more gurgling behind him. He whips about and this time he sees three spitters from behind. He shoots them down, but his nerves are beginning to fray and it takes him his entire clip to get all three of them down. The two spitters above him are dangerously close and he retreats south again, careful not to trip over the bodies of the fallen spitters. The odor of their corpses makes his stomach churn.

He drops his clip and loads the new one, but before he can turn around he sees two more spitters in front of him. _My God, how many of these fucking things are there?_ He manages to take them out with only one bullet each. He turns around and sees that the two spitters that were behind him have been joined by a third. He kills another one, but his hands are shaking almost as bad as the first time he had used the gun and it takes him four shots. _Damn it, this is no good, I've got to get out of this hallway_.

He turns and runs down the hall. He can hear more gurgling in front of him. But then he sees a pair of double doors on the left. There is one spitter in front of them but he chances getting close so he can aim better and he kills it with two shots. He quickly pushes the doors open, not really caring what lies on the other side. As soon as he is through the frame, he turns and slams the doors shut. He hears the sound of spray hitting the back of them. There is a metal bar to hold the doors and, even though he does not think armless things could possibly open the doors as there are, he pulls the bar in place and lets out a sigh of relief as silence comes over the radio.

The first thing he notices is that the air no longer smells of rust. Indeed, it almost smells as though he were outside. The pounding in his heart subsides and his breathing returns to normal. He takes a slow breath of the fresh air. There is a touch of stagnation in it, but compared to the prison it is nothing. According to the map, this is the courtyard. _But if the prison sank, why is the courtyard still outside?_ Underneath him is grass. But it is not green and healthy, but brown and dead. It is also soggy and squelches as he steps on it. He shines the flashlight above him. He cannot see anything resembling a ceiling. _Maybe it's part of a large cavern_, he thinks, _that's why it looks like an open area_.

He reloads his clip, leaving only two bullets left in the box. He reaches for another clip but then stops and swears. He dropped both of his spares in the corridor; to get them he will have to go back in. He decides to take a look around the courtyard first in the hope that the creatures inside the door will wander away. He pulls the wax plugs out of his ears and puts them in his pocket. Ghoulish curiosity drives him to look at the gallows first and he heads down the center of the courtyard, the squelching of his feet the only sound in the air.

The gallows is constructed of wood that has been painted black. It is a platform that stands nearly twenty feet in the air, supported by four thick posts reinforced by darkened concrete. It looms in the dark like a gigantic, spidery wraith. The top of the platform, where the noose hangs, is not visible in the dark. On the ground underneath the platform however, something dimly reflects the flashlight.

He approaches tentatively. With the radio quiet, he has no rational fear, but the ominous color and silence of the scaffold makes him nervous. He moves under the platform. Looking above him, he can see the outline of the trapdoor atop which many men took their last step, spoke their last word, and breathed their last breath. A little ways beyond is the shining object, is a brass plaque on a short stone post. The plaque depicts two executioners wearing familiar pyramidal hoods. Between them is an L-shaped gallows pole where a hooded man hangs. There is an inscription below the plaque:

_Bring unto me three false testimonies _

_that I may hang this man for a true one _

_which shall pay thy way to the Labyrinth_

Underneath the inscription are three square indentations slightly larger than postage stamps. He takes out the "Gluttonous Pig" tablet and puts it into the indentation. It fits perfectly. _I'll be damned_, he thinks, _so that's what these are. _He frowns, _I'm missing one though_.

He pulls the tablet out of the slot and puts it back in his pocket. He walks beyond the post. There are wooden steps that lead up to the platform. He is tempted to go up but he decides against it. His ostensible justification is that the damp wood cannot be trusted with his weight. But the truth is that he is terrified of what he might find up there.

He continues to look around the courtyard. Apart from more concrete walls and dead grass, the courtyard otherwise is empty. Reluctantly, he heads back to the double doors. He puts his ear against them and listens for some sign of the spitters beyond. He hears nothing. He puts the wax back in his ears and readies the gun. He pulls the bar out and yanks the door on the right open. But there is nothing there and the radio remains silent.

He enters the hall and keeps the gun raised. Still nothing. The corpse of one of the spitters lies just outside the door. He heads north up the hall to retrieve his dropped clips. Fortunately, neither of them ended up near the bodies of any of the spitters or else they would have gotten blood in them, rendering them useless without proper cleaning tools.

He puts each clip away in his pockets and continues down the corridor until he reaches the end. While somewhat relieved that there are no spitters, he does worry about how creatures without hands could possibly have left the hall. After confirming that the entire area is empty of monsters, he holsters the gun and takes out his map. There is still the south cellblock to search. And he now has an idea of what he is looking for.

He goes south, strangely comforted by the ambient sounds of the sunken prison. The bodies of the spitters have begun to stink and it does not mix well with the smell of rust and he is glad to arrive at the south door.

Like the north door, it is heavy and difficult to open. The hallway beyond is almost identical to the north cellblock. He shines the light into the first cell on his left, S10, just to see if there are any differences. But he finds none. He tries the cell door but it will not open. He passes the next two cells, neither of which open, before the murmuring starts. Again, he can hear it both in the hall and on the radio, though it does not sound the same as the murmurs in the north cellblock. He takes out the gun and walks forward slowly. The murmuring turns into a chant as he approaches S5.

—_Ooooohprisssuuuuuuh—_

The chant seems to cut through the wax in his ears. It is definitely coming from somewhere in the shadows of S5, but, as with N8, the flashlight reveals nothing.

—_Ooooohprisssuuuuuuh—_

Something else is different about the voice. The chanting in the north hallway had been simple repetition. But this voice seems to be directing the word specifically at James.

—_Ooooohprisssuuuuuuh—_

He does not try the door. Keeping an eye on the cell he moves on to S4. The bars on this one are just as rusted as the others, but he does feel a little bit of give to them.

—_Ooooohprisssuuuuuuh— _

The voice calls to him again. He glances at the front of S5, but there is nothing there. He pulls on the bars again and he feels them move a little more.

—_Ooooohprisssuuuuuuh—_

The voice seems more excited now. He ignores it and pulls on the bars with all his weight. With an angry squeal, they slide far enough for him to pass through the cell. The interior is much the same as the other cells, though the cot and the toilet are on the other side. On top of the cot is an old picture frame. It once contained a photograph, but the damp atmosphere has not been kind to it and if it were not so thin, one could call it mush. Next to the frame is a grey metal tablet.

—_Ooooohprisssuuuuuuh—_

He picks it up. It depicts a man in a cloak with some sort of crown made of vines or possibly leaves. His hands push on a nude figure crouching below him. The face of the figure suggests a woman, though its hands that beg for mercy also hide its chest, and its knees are pressed together, giving no indication of gender. The tablet reads "Oppressor" at the bottom. He puts it in his pocket and turns to leave. The radio is now silent, as is the voice in cell S5, leaving the occasional creak and droplet of water the only sounds in the dark hallway.

He makes his way back to the courtyard, through the dirt covered south cellblock and back up the rust smelling east corridor, and over the bloody bodies of the spitters. When he arrives at the courtyard he inhales a deep breath of the wonderfully stagnant air and removes the wax plugs from his ears.

He walks down the center of the silent courtyard where the black frame of the gallows materializes in the dark. He walks under the platform and over to the stone post. He reads the inscription again. _It doesn't say anything about the order I'm supposed to put them in_, he thinks, _maybe it doesn't matter_. He decides to put them in the order that he found them.

There is a small click when he finishes putting in the "Oppressor" tablet. From somewhere above, there is a man's scream and a loud thud as the platform's trapdoor opens. James turns around, fumbling for the gun, but he loses his footing and slips in the damp grass. A figure shrouded in black descends from the trapdoor opening and then violently stops five feet above the ground with a sickening crunch of bone. Its clenched hands open, scattering some sort of debris on the ground beneath it. It then slowly sways and spins hypnotically in the air.

He lies on the grass waiting for his pulse and breathing return to normal. The figure above makes no noise other than the occasional creak of wood from the gallows beam. Still trembling slightly, he brings himself up to his knees and then onto his feet. He brushes off the back of his pants and then shines the light up at the figure.

It is a man. He wears a ragged prisoner uniform that has been dyed black. His feet and hands are bare. The skin on them has turned from white to green to brown. Despite the scream, this man has been dead for many years. The rope that hangs him is a thick hemp rope that rises beyond the trapdoor and the range of the flashlight. A dark hood has been pulled over his head, though James can sense that the dead man's eyes are bulging with surprise underneath the black cloth, as though he had not expected this fate.

He shivers again and stands up. He moves closer to the man to look at the debris. As he does, he notices color stains on the man's sleeves and under his fingernails. They span a variety of colors: crimson, turquoise, blue, brown, and green. He frowns and then looks on the ground. Below the man is a pile of worn paintbrushes and a palette that has been broken in half. The brushes are of varying sizes but all have black wooden handles. He picks through the pile. He cannot recognize any sort of brand name on them and there is something strange about the material of the bristles. "Hmm." He murmurs.

Then his eye catches something poking out from just underneath one of the palette halves. Something thin, round, and metallic.

A coin.

He tosses the palette half aside and picks up the coin. It is old and crusted with dried blood. He manages to scrape some of it away with his fingernail, but it is not enough to reveal the surface of the coin. But he does not care. He knows he has possession of a coin "**ill-gotten by greed**".

The coin goes in his pocket and he leaves the executed artist to his eternal sleep above the ground and below the earth.

With the spitters dead and the voices in the cellblocks silenced, the walk back to the visitor's hall is strangely pleasant. The ambient sounds of the sinking prison, while eerie in nature, are a welcome relief to the silence that has permeated the town.

He arrives at the emergency release box. He takes the bloody coin out and inserts it into the slot. There is a rusty click and the box swings open revealing a red switch. He flips it and hears a latch release on the bars that block the stairs. He walks over to them and slides them open with a loud clang that seems to reverberate beyond the bars and into the floor below. The basement door, despite being rusty like all the other doors in prison, opens with ease. James looks at the frame and sees fresh scratch marks. Behind him, the release box closes and the security gate slides shut and locks. But his thoughts are elsewhere as he descends the stairs.

The steps are crooked and uneven, and the walls and ceiling are badly cracked. The basement itself is slightly better despite having to bear the weight of not only the earth but also that of the prison. The once-white tiles on the walls are still attached, though most on the floor are cracked. Temporary supports have been put in anyway to keep the ceiling from collapsing, but he can see from the bend in them that it is a battle that they will not win. There are two doors on the walls to his left and right and a set of double doors in the far wall. According to the map, the two doors on the left lead to infirmary bedrooms. One door on the right leads to the doctor's office and the other leads to an examination room.

He quickly discovers that all four rooms have collapsed long ago. That only leaves the set of double doors on the far wall. According to the map, the room beyond is the morgue. The doors are metal and only show signs of rust near the top. They were designed to swing both ways, so there are no handles on either side of the doors, just a dented metal plate. He puts his hand on one and pushes the door open.

The smell that emerges from inside the morgue is absolutely vile and even when he closes the door and turns his head away it is all he can do to keep from retching. There is almost no ventilation in the basement and the escaped stench of rotten flesh lingers. He takes a few breaths and pulls his shirt tightly up over his nose. He then opens the door again.

The air in the morgue reeks but his shirt is able to shield his nostrils from the smell enough for him to keep his stomach contents in their rightful place. The source of the smell is obvious and disturbing. There are dozens of bodies rotting inside. The refrigeration units have failed long ago and all the unclaimed bodies of the condemned men were left to rot in this damp atmosphere. There are twelve square holes on the left wall and another twelve in the right that were once refrigeration units. All contain at least one body, some two, some three, and one at the very end that has at least eight stuffed into. There is a bed on the other side with a body lying atop it. A white sheet is draped over the corpse leaving only its dark green feet exposed.

He tries not to look at them. The room is silent and still; under such circumstances the mind often tries to stimulate itself by seeing movements and hearing sounds that are not really there and he does not want his mind injecting false life into any of these things before him. But something does nag at him. The bodies show many visual signs of putrefaction. But being underground and in a damp environment, they should also have signs of consumption by the various creatures that thrive on carrion. Maggots, ants or even types of fungi should be abundant given the plethora of nutrients offered by a single cadaver. But it seems these have all been left to the microorganisms.

This line of thought pulls James away from the bodies and on to moving forward. A number of pestilences can be contracted from contact with untreated corpses and he moves to the open doors at the far end of the room.

The next room is marked "Down" on the map, and it contains another pit. He closes the door behind him and that reduces the smell of the bodies, although he keeps his shirt over his nose as there is a stretcher with another body on top of it next to the hole. _My God_, he thinks, _were they dumping bodies into this pit?_ There is no way to be certain without jumping, but he surmises that if the bottom was cluttered with corpses, the smell rising out of the pit would be even stronger than the smell in the morgue.

A good sign is Their willingness to accept the absurd, and James gives me a good sign as he automatically secures all his belongings again and walks to the edge of the pit. _Anything to get away from this smell_, he rationalizes and steps into the darkness.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

He lands on loose, dry ground that feels like gravel beneath his feet. The flashlight reveals that it is, in fact, gravel; though it is comprised of mostly flat, brittle rocks that crack beneath his feet. The walls around him are rock and the roof is held up with wooden support struts. Bizarrely, there is no hole above him. To his right, the tunnel dead ends into a solid stone wall; to his left, it continues for another thirty feet, eventually turning into a dimly lit room.

He makes his way through the gravel strewn floor and over to the room. The "room" turns out to be an industrial mining elevator. The floor is made of heavy steel and from the looks of it has carried its share of mineral loads. The walls are thick steel screens with two large, metal cross beams. The lighting comes from dim bulbs in the corner of the ceiling, which is nothing more than a metal grate. As he steps into the room, steel bars close off the entrance to the room and the elevator begins to descend down the shaft. He can see the walls of the shaft are composed of rock crisscrossed with support beams. He looks for some sort of elevator controls, but there is nothing. He is stuck until I decide it is time for the elevator to stop. The descent continues and his mind begins to wander. He tells himself that the elevator must lead to a way out, given that the top was a dead end. He listens to the rattle of the cable and he is reminded of what he left behind at the bottom of the last elevator. Maria in her halo of blood, teeth, and…

…_No, I can't think about that. _He rubs his head and turns his thoughts to other things; things nearly as unpleasant, but not as personal. _Those bodies in the morgue…They had to be the inmates. Were they left there when the prison sank?_ _Seems unlikely, but maybe there was a brutal streak among the guards. Or maybe there was a disease, something that was seeping up from the ground._ _Wait, maybe that's too exotic. Maybe the water got contaminated with something…arsenic or lead maybe. Yeah, can't lead poisoning cause schizophrenia in some cases? Maybe this town…_

I do not like this reasoning. Though his answer is erroneous and implausible, he is still only a step away from reasoning that the town has been abandoned because of contaminated water. From there he will hypothesize that he, Eddie, Angela, and Laura are all the victims of lead poisoning, which, he thinks, would explain everyone's bizarre behavior. He will then go a step further and reason that everything he has experienced in this town, the monsters, the visions, the voices, and the puzzles, are all simply the result of misfiring synapses and blocked neurotransmitters. This will bring him to the ultimate conclusion that "_This is all just in my head_". An epiphany such as that will cause irreversible changes in the physical manifestations of his guilt and I will not allow that to happen this soon. I break this treacherous train of thought by bringing the elevator to an abrupt halt at the entrance to the Labyrinth.

The bars of the elevator slide open and he steps into the room. Behind him, there is a loud rattle as the elevator cables begin to tear away. The bars slam shut, the cable breaks with a loud, ringing twang and the elevator plummets with a shriek down the shaft, once again leaving James with only one way forward.

Bits of rock still litter the floor of the room. But the construction has completely changed. The floor is now a nondescript wood paneling, such as one might find in any apartment building, though it appears worn from countless feet having trodden over it. The walls and ceiling are cream colored, though the paint is faded. The texture is rough and irregular, as though rather than scour the peeling layer of paint off, someone had just added another coat and then another after that one started to peel and another after that, leaving the wall's texture pockmarked but its color seamless. A simple wooden door stands before him, painted to match the walls.

He puzzles over whether this is part of the mine or part of the prison. It possesses an unfurnished residential look. He does not recall housing units being built for the guards or for the minors. But maybe there were some constructed and then they sank below the earth with the other buildings. But that would not explain why it is connected to a mining elevator. Additionally, the structure is even further underground than the prison and yet the walls show absolutely no signs of stress. A wooden structure like this should have been crushed long ago. More questions and still no answers. He would like to stay and ponder this more, but the Labyrinth calls to him and he cannot resist. _Nothing to do but go forward_, he thinks. He goes to the wood door, turns the dulled brass knob and enters the hall beyond.

White noise on the radio and two spitters in front of him. Reflexes make him draw his gun and aim it in less than an instant, but panic makes him forget to take the safety off. He squeezes hard before realizing his mistake. He steps back into the open doorway, putting more distance between him and the spitters. He flicks off the safety and puts three bullets into the first spitter. He hears it cry out but he jumps back into the elevator room and slams the door closed with out bothering to see if it is dead.

He raps his knuckles on the wood door, testing its strength. It is fairly light, and might even be hollow. A plan forms in his mind. He bends over and looks down at the threshold of the door. It has been worn enough to allow a small part of the flashlight's glow to seep in underneath. He does not need much, just enough to see the position of the second spitter's legs. He can make out two silhouettes centered in front of the door. He stands back up and aims the gun at the center of the door. He takes a deep breath, hoping his judgment is correct. He fires three times. He underestimates the strength of the wood and the first bullet loses too much force when it penetrates the door. But it does weaken the surrounding wood enough for the second and third bullets to pass through and strike the spitter in its head and neck. He hears it scream and fall on the other side of the door.

He cautiously opens the door. Both spitters lie dead on the floor. But the radio still plays static, though it is very faint. He steps over bodies, holding his breath; the air here is not as stale as it was in the prison, but there is still no ventilation and the spitters always seem to leave a foul odor in their wake.

The hallway beyond branches to the left, something nags at him as he moves, but he is too distracted by the radio to put his finger on it. Up ahead, the hallway splits, part of it continuing straight and part of it branching to the right. He is briefly divided about which way to go and settles on the right.

The radio grows fainter as he takes this side passage and he initially finds his choice to be a satisfying one. Until, of course, he runs into a dead end twenty feet later. He mouths a curse and doubles back. The static gets louder, but he does not think the volume is any greater than it was before he made the turn. Again, he senses something is wrong, but he cannot figure what.

He advances slowly, the radio grows louder and he can hear the spitter now. It is coming up the hall at a lazy pace. It gurgles, but despite have come close in the prison cell, he has currently lost interest in determining what the spitters are trying to say. He holds his position and waits. It is only a few seconds before he sees the flicker of movement just outside the range of the flashlight. In an open hallway, fully prepared, and with just one creature, the result is so predictable that I would not even bother mentioning the incident except an invisible timer that is slowly counting down to zero moves from six down to five and from five down to four with each blast of the gun and yet he still remains oblivious.

Again, the static on the radio grows faint, but it does not cease. He keeps the gun ready and moves ahead. The radio grows louder and louder; he should be able to see the spitter at any moment. But instead he arrives at a T intersection. _Damn_, he thinks, _it's around one of these corners_. He pauses and waits. Nothing happens. He listens, but he hears nothing except the radio.

He waits a little longer, just listening. The radio continues its static, but he can hear neither footsteps nor gurgling. _The damn thing's waiting me out_, he realizes. He readjusts his plan. He will have to go on the offensive. The question for him is: _which corner is it hiding behind?_ His odds are fifty-fifty, which would be decent in another situation, but due to the width of the corridor, if he guesses wrong, the creature will be able to spray him from across the hall.

He decides to approach the left. The flashlight will give away his movements, so he clicks it off and finds the left wall. With the flashlight off he cannot possibly aim the gun, but if he switches it on just before he goes around the corner, he should be able to surprise the spitter—if he moves quietly enough. He creeps up the hall, treading softly on the wood floor. He measures six paces and then stops. He moves his hand slowly and softly forward, seeking the corner. He reaches his arm out as far as it will go and he still does not find it. He takes another soundless step forward and then probes the wall again. His fingers run along the rough surface and then, he feels it end. _Okay, this is it_, he thinks, but the sense that he is forgetting something intrudes itself again. He pushes it aside and prepares to jump the corner.

His left hand is on the flashlight switch and his right hand is on the trigger of the gun. He takes a deep but inaudible breath, jumps the corner, turns the flashlight on and aims. At first, fortune smiles upon him. The spitter is there, a little further back than he expected and he shoots two bullets at it. In his haste to fire the gun however, he sacrifices some accuracy; both bullets hit, but neither connects with its head.

He pulls the trigger a third time and suddenly remembers what has been bothering him even as he hears the click of the firing pin entering an empty chamber.

_Shit._

Indeed.

The spitter is not down and he slips back around the corner before it can spray him. He is panicked. He has only two bullets left, neither of which is loaded in a clip and the spitter, though injured, advances down the corridor. He could retreat to the elevator room. That would give him time to load the last two bullets. But he dismisses it; for all he knows, there are more spitters in this place and he does not want to waste his last precious bullets on a wounded creature. That leaves the baton.

He holsters the gun and pulls the baton out of its pouch. The creature turns the corner before he can extend it though. He quickly backs away from the spitter and flicks his wrist, extending the baton. He continues to back away from the spitter. He needs to put some distance between them in order to time his strike properly. It gurgles and spits, but he judges the distance well and he is just out of range. As soon as the vapor settles, he lunges forward swinging the baton like a bat. It whistles in the air and cracks against the side of the spitter's head, causing the right half to cave in. The creature shrieks and falls to the ground. Its feet flail a few times and then it lies still. The radio is silent.

He collapses the baton and walks over to the other wall and sits down against it. The tension he has felt ever since he first heard the radio in the Labyrinth has exhausted him mentally. The task of reloading the gun has become instinctive and he puts the last two bullets into a clip without thinking. He absently shakes the box to confirm its emptiness and tosses it aside. He closes his eyes. A bad thing to do…

Darkness swirls around his vision. A pair of blue eyes materializes from within it. Three strands of light brown hair hang over them. He reaches for them and they suddenly go wide with fright. There is a muted scream and then the pupil of each eye dilates and their gleaming black surfaces reflect a face with a smile so cruel it sends a chill up his spine. Blood begins to run in streaks over the eyes, briefly shattering the reflection and then mending it again as the eye becomes completely coated. And then he sees the face staring back at him in the red reflection is his own…

He awakes with a start. He cannot have been asleep for long; the spitter's blood still glistens and the flashlight has not dimmed at all. He shakes the image of his face in the blood from his mind and stands up. While by no means rested, he is ready to move on.

He stands at the T intersection and briefly ponders which direction to go first. He glances at the spitter once and chooses the left. _Let's see just what you were guarding_, he thinks.

With the radio quiet, he moves more quickly. After going left from the intersection, the hall quickly turns right and continues for another twenty yards before ending in another T intersection, although this one is not precisely an intersection, for instead of two branching hallways, there is a ladder on each side of the hall descending through a narrow manhole.

He pauses and considers his options. He could double back and try the other side. But the Labyrinth beckons him forward and They usually obey. He selects the left ladder.

The ladder is riveted to the floor by thick bolts. It is covered in a thin layer of orange rust, but seems solid enough. He shines the light through the manhole. The floor seems to be roughly twelve feet below, though he cannot make out any details about it except that it is not wood paneling as it is above. He takes the baton out, flicks it open, and uses it to scratch an X in the wall next to the ladder. Then he collapses it and secures it back in the pouch.

He has his doubts about the width of the manhole and fears it will be a struggle to squeeze through it. When he puts his feet through it though, he finds his fears unfounded. While it gets extremely narrow, it never requires any contortion on his part.

He descends the ladder. The rungs feel dirty from the rust and he has to brush quite a bit of it off his hands when he gets to the bottom. The floor beneath him makes the clang of metal when he steps on it. He looks down and sees it is metal grating over cement. The walls around him have turned into rough, gray cement, just like the floor. The ladder has deposited him in a small alcove that is just off of a larger hall. He looks both ways down the hall, but it seems identical either way. He takes the left route again.

The hall turns a corner almost immediately and the cement on the floor disappears, leaving nothing between him and the darkness below except the grate. He slows himself down. The holes in the grate are triangular and large enough to snag his foot if he is careless. The hall goes another twenty feet and then turns a corner again. Then he hears it on the radio. A rattling noise. A few seconds later he feels the vibrations in the grate. He wants to turn back, but the first of the slime coated blades shoots up behind him accompanied by that strange groan. He runs forward, though he knows there will be more of them up ahead. He sees one just to his left and he veers right to avoid the sword. The holes in the grate are large enough for the blades to slip through so instead of the screech of metal, they only make a slimy hiss as they come up through the grate.

Then, just to his left, another alcove emerges from the dark. He glances in and sees the floor turn to cement. He darts into it just as another blade shoots up from the floor, nicking the heel of his shoe. He stands in the alcove panting and listening to the hiss of the blades being thrust through the grate behind him.

He regains his breath and notices that he is actually in a short hallway at the end of which stands a large cast-iron door. The size and color is intimidating, but something about the door fascinates him immensely. He walks up and examines it closely. Unlike nearly every other metal door he has seen thus far, this one shows absolutely no signs of ruin or neglect. The flatter surfaces on it almost shine, it has neither dents nor rust spots and the hinges are well oiled. A large handle is on the right hand side with a latch button just above it.

He puts his hand on it. It is cool to the touch and, with his body temperature elevated from his increased pace, it is actually quite pleasant. He grips the handle and presses the latch button. The door is extremely heavy and even with the hinges perfectly oiled he strains to move it. It finally opens without a sound and he steps into the room beyond.

It smells of blood. Not rotting flesh or other forms of decomposing proteins, but the metallic smell of blood and blood alone. High overhead, behind a metal screen, an industrial fan rotates with a rhythmic _swoosh_, giving the room some ventilation and a cooler temperature. Almost immediately he sees a mannequin in front of him. His hand starts to go for the baton, but the radio is silent and the mannequin does not move. He looks more closely at it and realizes, with some relief, that it is not alive. Its bottom legs stand roughly shoulder width apart with its knees slightly bent. Its left upper leg sticks straight up in the air. Its right leg is bent and cocked back. The mannequin is held upright by a short, black pole attached to a plate on the ground. The mannequin's joints all seem to have been severed and then sewn back up, as there are traces of blood running down from its every seam and he can see stitching at the junctions.

_Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_

Running blood seems to be the theme as he looks around the large, octagonal room. It is lit by tinted lights above the ceiling that turn nearly every color inside into some shade of red. The left portion of the room seems to be devoted solely to mannequins. They have all been dismembered and reassembled in a variety of positions. One sits on a stool with its legs crossed seductively; another has its legs spread vulgarly apart and one next to it has its knees modestly pressed together; yet another stands with all four of its feet on the ground, thrusting its ersatz pelvis upward; two mannequins have had their feet switched so that one only has left feet and one only has right feet; three have been put in ballet poses: a one-leg pirouette, a demi-pli, and an arabesque; There is one mounted spread eagle on the wall, the blood from its stitches leaving long streaks below it; up on the ceiling are eight right legs sewn together to form a wheel and right next to it are eight left legs sewn together by the soles of their feet to form spokes.

_Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_

The stitches are simple and large, not requiring much skill, but care has been taken to make sure each one is perfectly proportioned to the next and that there are no loose threads. Furthermore, special care has been taken to ensure every cut is clean; when it was not, the twisted artist carefully filed the edges until they were smooth. It is chilling, but at the same time, there _is_ an artistic quality to each of the mannequins. As he looks around, he is forced to admit that it is only his knowledge of the materials that frightens him. If these had been made from normal plastic and red paint, he would be admiring the artist's attention to detail and commenting that the red lighting was a nice touch. But instead, he lingers on their construction. He wonders what sort of creature would take the time to hunt these creatures down, dissect their bodies, mend them back up into grotesque perversions of their already ghastly former selves, and then arrange them—albeit tastefully—in a such a display?

_Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_

The other side of the room is not any better. Steel bed frames line the walls and three hang from the ceiling. Strapped upside down in each one lays a desiccated corpse. They appear nearly identical, although this is done by surgery and reconstruction, not by coincidence or simple choice of victim. They have been wrapped in sheets of skin sewn together down the center to fit tightly around their faces and torsos, hiding any distinguishing features, though he believes they are all women based on the proportions of their hips and shoulders. Care has also been taken to ensure they are all of similar height; with a wave of revulsion, he notices that some of the corpses have had parts of their legs cut off and then reattached to ensure a uniform length. The skin around them has dried as well and it resembles old leather. They exude almost no smell, in part because there is little of them left to stink and in part because of the fan above.

_Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_

Straight ahead, on the far wall of the room, a bright light shines down on a table. The table's natural color is white, though there is very little of that visible anymore. The table is covered in fresh blood. It glistens in the light and so much has been spilt that it has started to drip off the table and pool onto the floor below. On the right side of the table, sits a pile of tools. Though his instincts tell him otherwise, he approaches the table to examine them.

_Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_

The smell of blood lessens when he gets to the table and he can feel the cool breeze of the fan turning over his head. But despite the reprieve from the smell, a new wave of nausea hits him as he sees the tools. Scalpels, clamps, scissors, two files—one large and one small, pliers, a hacksaw, spools of surgical thread and sewing needles lie jumbled together. The edges, points, and teeth of every object is soaked in blood, apart from the spools, which have been placed carefully so as not to be soiled by the contents of the table. His flashlight penetrates under the table and it is there that he finds items more disturbing than the gory tools.

_Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_

The objects themselves are innocuous; a black metal bucket which contains a bloodstained rag, a floor brush with bristles caked in dried blood, an unmarked aerosol spray can, and a plastic bottle filled with a pink colored fluid that smells like bleach. It is their mere presence here that disturbs him most. The brutality shown to the mannequins and the women on the bed frames is terrifying enough, but that some thing could be so vicious and yet show such care for the tools of its trade and the place in which it works as to keep cleaning supplies about is almost incomprehensible. _What could do this?_ He wonders. And then, he sees the answer leaning against the left side of the table.

_Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_

A long handled, bloodstained, heavy, black knife; the same knife that nearly claimed his life in the stairwell at Blue Creek Apartments, the same knife that struck him off of the roof of Brookhaven Hospital, and the same knife that passed judgment over the dying multitudes in "Misty Day".

"Oh my God." He whispers.

_Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_

Then a more urgent concern hits him. The tools have not been washed and put away and the table still runs with blood. _Why keep cleaning supplies around if you're not going to use them before you leave...unless, of course, you're planning to come back soo—Oh Shit._

_Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_

His heart begins to beat loudly in his chest as he turns and runs back to the door. He pushes the latch and puts his full weight against the door. It opens much faster this time, but nothing could be fast enough for him right now. He bursts out of the room exchanging _swoosh_ of the fan for rattle of the radio.

He runs out into the main hallway. His initial instinct is to run back the way he came, but a hissing sword argues against it, as does the large triangular-headed figure emerging from around the corner. So he bolts to his left. He sees two hangers ahead of him, their blades springing up from the grate to form a barricade. He pauses before it, waiting for them to retract. They do so quickly, and reposition themselves to stab at him again but he is already running. Up ahead, the floor turns back to concrete, giving him a reprieve from the hanging creatures.

He turns around and looks back down the corridor. He hears the hissing of the swords and something else too. A steady pounding on the grate. Footsteps.

Pyramid Head comes through the dark with his crimson shafted spear and his robe soaked in fresh blood. He pauses when he sees James and bangs the butt of the spear against the grate. James does not wait to see what he does next. He simply turns and runs down the hall as fast as he can. He is not sure how fast Pyramid Head is moving or if he is even following him and he badly wants to turn around, but he knows that any sort of hesitation on his part could be fatal.

The corridor twists again and James rounds the corner. Now he _can_ hear Pyramid Head pursuing him. He runs another four steps before the floor becomes a grate again. He feels the grate rattling beneath him and he sidesteps the hanging monster. But its blade does not come up with a slimy hiss like the others. Instead it harkens back to the place behind the glossy black door on Katz and rises with the screech of metal as it tears a hole in the grate. He hears more tearing metal in front of him and realizes that they are no longer targeting him directly. _Shit!_ He runs faster. The grate beneath his feet seems to wobble more and more with every step he takes. Up ahead the ground turns to concrete again, but the grate below his feet has begun rock back and forth.

He takes a chance and jumps the last four feet. He manages to clear the grate, but he lands on the concrete poorly. His feet begin to slip out from under him; his arms pinwheel forward trying to regain his balance but to no avail. He tilts his head back to avoid smashing his face on the floor. He hits the floor and pain shoots through his chest and arms. Fortunately, apart from being temporarily stunned, he is unharmed and the flashlight is undamaged. He rolls over onto his back and looks back down the corridor.

Pyramid Head has just rounded the corner, moving at a brisk march. James starts to get back up, but his legs and arms refuse to move as fast as the situation calls for. He looks at the crimson hood—though it seems it is really more a helmet in nature—then at the spear, then at the cold gray walls around him, and he thinks, _Oh my God, I'm going to die here!_

Pyramid Head puts one foot on the grate and then something strange happens. The sword of a hanging monster shoots up in front of him. With stunning speed and ferocity, he rams his spear through the grate and impales the monster on it; with just as much speed and ferocity, he pulls the spear back out and tilts his hood down to watch the hanger fall screaming into the void below it. He looks back up at James. He takes the butt of the spear and taps the grate with it. It creaks and groans. The hood tilts to one side and James hears a grunt emerge.

"**Hmm**"

He then looks back at James, who has finally gotten to his feet. He bangs the butt of the spear on the ground in frustration and turns his body. He could perhaps be turning to leave, but a spear need not be a melee weapon and the turn could also be Pyramid Head cocking his shoulder back to hurl the spear at a motionless target. James does not wait to find out which and bolts back down the hall.

It begins to curve to the left again, and James has a sickening feeling that it may circle back to the iron door, meaning Pyramid Head could come at him the other way. Then, there is an alcove on the left with a rusty ladder leading up. He makes a snap decision, turns left and starts climbing up the ladder. His arms and legs ache from the fall and they protest with each rung he ascends, but his need for survival overcomes all else. He gets to the top and climbs out another narrow manhole and finds himself in another wooden floored hallway.

The radio is silent and he lets out an audible sigh of relief. There is another ladder heading down directly across from him, but he sees the X scratched into the wall next to it and realizes he is back in the first hall of the Labyrinth. He heads back to the T intersection and stops to rest against the wall.

The manholes are narrow, and he is almost certain that even if his hood is removable, Pyramid Head's shoulders are too broad to fit through them. So, at the very least, he has some time to let the burn of his muscles subside without worrying about the crimson executioner coming for him while he is alone in the dark. After some time, he scratches another X against the left junction to mark the path he's already taken, and proceeds down the right.

Down that path, They always ask Themselves, which is worse, torture of the body, or torture of the mind? The answer, of course, is completely irrelevant, because I always make certain the Labyrinth provides both.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The hall quickly turns left after the intersection. He moves quickly but cautiously; though the radio is silent, Pyramid Head's presence has never activated it before and he has no means of escape should the monster find him here.

The hallway ends after twenty feet at another manhole with a rusty ladder going down. He carefully approaches the manhole. He has no desire to descend back down to Pyramid Head's lair, and the possibility of him standing underneath the manhole with his spear, waiting for someone foolish to stick their head over it before impaling them does not sit well with James.

Shining the light below, however, reveals no predators lying in wait. Indeed, the ladder descends to a completely separate area; the reflection of the flashlight ripples on the floor below. He climbs down the ladder and steps into water.

It is slightly deeper than his ankles and quickly soaks his shoes. While by no means warm, the water is not as cold as he was expecting. That, combined with his wool socks, should keep his feet from freezing, though walking in wet footwear is never comfortable. The water itself has a brownish yellow color, though it is not so murky that he cannot see the floor below the waterline. A thin layer of silt is on the bottom and he kicks up little clouds of it as he walks.

He has entered an old sewer. Or at least, what looks like an old sewer. The walls around him were built with rough grey bricks, though they have darkened with time and dirt. He can see the occasional thick pipe built across the ceiling or up and down the wall. The signs that this was never an actual sewer are more in the feel and smell. There is nothing remotely resembling a current in the water which an actual sewer would possess. The smell in the air is definitely the water, but it is not the smell of sewer water which carries with it the stink of everything mortals discard, be it their excrement, urine, refuse, and the occasional inconvenient corpse. Even if the sewer has been abandoned for decades, buildup in the cracks in the walls should have fostered various molds or fungi that would produce their own unique scent. However, there is nothing as unpleasant as that; just a mere twinge of soil and mineral.

Contemplation about the true nature of the sewer however, becomes secondary to the white noise on the radio. He extends the baton. Even if he had sufficient ammunition, the gun is out of the question; the walls are close and hard, increasing the chance of a ricochet. The water is also a problem; if he were to drop the gun it would have to be taken apart and dried out using materials not in his possession.

He can hear the spitter sloshing around in the water, though the acoustics of the sewer make it difficult to tell its precise location. The corridor ahead turns left and then almost immediately turns right, making a zigzag shape. He stops at the first corner and listens. It sounds as though the spitter is somewhere past the second corner but he cannot be certain. He thinks of trying the trick he used on the last spitter. If it is close enough it might work with the baton. But he ends up rejecting it. That plan calls for stealth and it is impossible to move silently in the water.

He settles on a different strategy, _I'll just play a little peek-a-boo_. He walks up to the first corner and puts his face almost flush against the wall. He then quickly sticks his head around the corner just long enough to catch a glimpse of the area beyond before pulling it back. The spitter is not there so he moves around the first corner and puts himself against the second corner. He gets a sinking feeling in his gut as he puts his face against the wall. The problem with his plan, as he is well aware, is that his position is easily determined from the movement of the light and the sound of his footsteps in the water. If the spitter is just out of reach and facing him, it could spray him before he pulls his head back around.

He listens. The spitter is moving though he cannot tell which direction. From the sound though, it is not, at present, close to the corner. He pokes his head out; the spitter is not there. He pulls his head back around the corner. But the footsteps are now moving faster. _Shit, it saw me_. With his location known, he sees little benefit from hiding so he steps out from the corner and waits for the creature to come into view.

The spitter's anatomy places heavy restrictions on its speed, but for just this once James wishes it could move a little faster. He stands waiting, his muscles tense as the seconds slowly slip by. The tension has become almost unbearable when the twisting shape finally moves out of the dark. He does not wait for a sound of any kind. Knowing their poor balance, he lunges forward swinging the baton in a chopping motion. He hopes to catch it on the head and knock it straight to the floor, but instead the blow lands on its shoulder. Even over the radio, he can hear cracking noises as whatever bones the thing possesses in that area shatter. The creature bends over, but does not immediately fall. Its spray clouds the water, though he pays it little heed; the substance has proven to be water soluble and poses no threat.

James strikes another overhead blow, trying to knock the creature flat on the ground. The head is too low and instead, he aims for the center of its back; thinking that he might be able to paralyze it by shattering its spinal cord, though he is not entirely certain if it even has a spinal cord. The blow lands and the spitter pitches forward, but instead of landing on the ground, it floats on the water's surface. With a kick of its feet, it darts between his legs like a snake. James turns around and sees the creature has already gotten off of the ground, though it has not yet straightened up its torso.

He swings at its left leg this time, trying to cripple it. The knee snaps with ease, the creature screams and falls flat on the ground. Before it can do anything else, James hops over its broken leg and brings his heel down on the spitter's head. It cries out with a slight echo in the hall, but the killer has his quarry and he mercilessly stomps it again. He feels something crack beneath his shoe and the radio goes silent as an inky cloud forms in the water around the spitter's body.

He collapses the baton and makes his way down to the end of the corridor, the sloshing of his shoes now the only sound in the dark sewer. At the end, he finds another rusty ladder heading up. He cannot see much above the manhole, except that the room above appears to be lit. His curiosity helps him ignore the burn in his muscles as he climbs the ladder.

Once at the top however, his shoulders and forearms refuse to be ignored any longer and, satisfied by the silence of the radio, he sits down on the floor to rest them. He unties his shoes, takes them off and dumps out as much of the water as he can. He then pulls his socks off and begins to wring them out. He looks around as he works. The room is identical to the upper hallways with the wood panel floor and cream colored walls. The light comes from a single fluorescent in the center of the ceiling. On the far wall is an ordinary wooden door.

After a few minutes, he puts his socks and shoes back on. They are still damp, but that uncomfortable soggy feeling is gone. He gets back onto his feet and stretches his back and shoulders before going to the door. The brass knob is surprisingly polished considering the rest of the area. He carefully turns it, opens the door, and gasps.

The room beyond is well lit by several more fluorescent lights. On the wall to his right is a heavy iron door. To his front, a row of steel prison bars separate the room in half. There are several old wooden stools in front of the bars. Beyond the bars, however, is what makes him gasp.

She sits with her legs crossed in a chair with a red velvet cushion and a floral pattern. She stares at him with a dreamy expression on her face. Her skin is as light, smooth, and clean as it was when he first met her in Rosewater Park. There are no wounds on her or even traces of wounds on her. Her hair is brushed and glossy; her lipstick and eye shadow are perfectly in place; her burgundy blouse is buttoned twice; there are no runs in her stockings, and her boots shine with fresh polish.

He gawks at her for a long moment before finding his voice. But he is not able sort out his thoughts and at first they all tumble out in a disordered jumble "M…Maria? You...alive! But that thing killed you…I don't believe it—I-I-I mean, uh, I'm glad you're alive—but that spear—and the blood—and you're face with your cheek—and—and y-your teeth…" Maria does not respond to any of his babble; she just sits there with that dreamy expression.

He takes a breath and composes a simple sentence, "Are your teeth hurt bad?" It had seemed like a legitimate question, but it sounds completely asinine as soon as he hears it leave his mouth.

"Of course not, silly." And, as if to re-assure him, she flashes him a wide open-mouthed smile, though her eyes still have that blissful look; and in a surreal way, he sees his wife's face on hers.

"Maria?" He finally organizes his thoughts and walks over to the bars, "I'm sorry. I thought that you were dead when Pyramid Head stabbed you."

Her smile fades, but does not entirely disappear, as she tilts her head and furrows her brow. "Pyra-who stabbed me? What are you talking about?"

"We were near the elevator and he came after us. I got to the elevator but the doors closed and I couldn't open them. He caught up with us and then…" But he does not want to finish the thought.

Her smile fades completely and a look of tender concern comes over her face as she stands up from the chair, "James, I don't know what you're talking about."

"It must have been just before you came here." His rational mind begins to race, trying to find some logical explanation for her miraculous presence. But They seldom have any interest in what Their rational minds have to say at this point and James is no different.

She walks closer to the bars and smiles a very controlled smile. "James honey…" He realizes the voice she has been speaking in is different. It is not as sultry as it has been before. It is slightly higher like…_like Mary's_…"Did something happen to you?" She continues, "After we got separated in that long hallway?"

There is something hypnotic about the her eyes. "What? No. I'm pretty sure we…" He stops himself, _actually, no; I _was _pretty sure, but now…Maybe something _did_ happen to me._ The image of her torn face has haunted him for so long, he was certain it must have happened. But, that is now nothing more than a memory. And she is here, in the present and in the flesh. "…Maybe, I don't know…"

She laughs a rich laugh, "You're confusing me with someone else aren't you?" She shakes her head and laughs again, "Well, you _were_ always so forgetful." She gives him a coy smile and raises an eyebrow, "Remember that time in the hotel…?"

"Maria?" It is not an interruption, but rather a questioning of her identity. Her voice and her smile are different, her stance does not seem as flirtatious, and Maria would have certainly made some quip when he asked about the condition of her teeth.

She ignores his question and continues, "…You _said_ you took everything but you forgot the videotape." She laughs again, "I'll bet it's still there…"

_Videotape? _Then he remembers, _The one I made with that old camera that we rented. Yeah, I did forget that; you laughed at me for weeks about it. But..._"How do you know about that?" His suspicion deepens but he is surprised to find a trace of wild hope in it, "Are you Maria?" _You can't be_.

This time, her smile is lop-sided and her voice is sultry, "Well, I'm not your Mary." She flips her hair and her ethereal, hypnotic eyes linger on him.

He feels those eyes drawing him in, but not enough to distract him from the evasiveness of her answer. "So you're Maria, then?"

The lop-sided smile stays; she tilts her head coquettishly and steps right next to the bars, "I am…if you want me to be."

He walks right up to the bars, "What I want is—!" It starts as irritable shout, but as he comes close to the bars, the scent of orange sherbert touches his nostrils, her hypnotic eyes bore into him, and his voice loses its edge, "—…is...is a straight answer."

She reaches through the bars and puts her fingertips under his chin. He unconsciously leans towards her as she whispers, "It doesn't matter who I am, James…I'm here for you." She holds her smile. "That's all that's important." She puts her smooth, warm hand on his cheek, "See? I'm real."

Build the attraction.

He tries to think of a response but his rational mind is unable to overcome the desire for her touch and he simply stands there. She begins to trace her fingers along the line of his jaw, just like Mary often would before and after they—

"—I..." he starts, trying to break this line of thought, but nothing more comes out.

She leans her face completely against the bars and whispers in his ear, "Touch me." The fragrance of her perfume, the tingling of her fingers on his face and the feel of her hot breath on his ear are intoxicating and he almost forgets everything else as one hand starts to move to take hers and the other begins to reach for her through the bars.

Build the attraction.

But the logical part of his brain screams out a warning about deserted towns, monsters underground and loyalty to a dead wife. He hesitates and lets his hand drop, though he still feels slightly entranced. "I…I can't."

"Yes, you can..." She reaches down into the front of her blouse, past the swell of her breasts and pulls out a tiny, silver key. She presses the key against his face. It radiates both her warmth and her scent and his pulse quickens at the thought of where this key lay not more than ten seconds ago. She gives a nod to the door on his right and says, "...Come and get me…" she pushes her face a little ways beyond the bars and whispers in his ear, "…I can't do anything through these bars."

He is not sure if the warm breeze on his ear snaps him out of the enchantment or if her enticing words seal him in it. His head turns to an iron door on the other side of the bars. There is a small but barred window and what looks like a tiny food slot on it. He nods at her, takes the key and proceeds to the door on his side of the bars. She walks to a bed in the corner, sits down, and elegantly crosses her legs, smiling her lop-sided smile the whole time. He does not recall finding the lock, putting the key in, or even opening the door. All he remembers is taking one last look at her smiling face and hypnotic blue eyes, and then leaving the room.

The room past the door is no larger than a closet. It contains another manhole and rusty ladder. He secures his things and begins to descend. His encounter with Maria, strange as it was, has given him a new surge of energy and the trip down the ladder does not seem as arduous as before.

He is back in another sewer. The water is slightly deeper here, up to the bottom of his shins. The smell of soil and mineral is stronger, but that is offset by traces of Maria's perfume, perhaps from the key, or from where she touched his face. The real concern, however, is once again the screeching of the radio. He can hear another spitter somewhere out there. He extends the baton and makes his way forward. With stealth made impossible by the water, he concentrates more on speed.

Up ahead, the sewer continues straight, but another hall branches off to the right. The spitter is somewhere straight down the sewer, so he decides there is little harm in checking this side passage. It only leads about twenty or so feet before ending. But there is a ladder and manhole in the ceiling. Fighting takes time and energy, so rather than going back and exploring the rest of the sewer, he collapses the baton and climbs the ladder onto the floor above.

He is back into the worn, wood floored hallway and cream colored walls, though the paint here has begun to crack in places. The hallway runs left and right and the radio is alive. He extends the baton and uses it to scratch a crude arrow pointing left on the wall. He heads down the hall and the radio grows louder.

This spitter sprays faster than any of the other ones he's seen before; the brown vapor appears almost before the creature steps into view. But the cloud seems narrower than most and James manages to sidestep it. He lunges at the spitter while chopping with the baton. This is the first spitter that attempts to dodge his strike. It twists its head and body away and the baton makes a deep _whoosh_ as it hits nothing but air. However the creature's legs and hips are unable to accommodate its sudden shift in balance and it starts to teeter off to its side. An advantage of the baton is that it has very little recovery time, and James is swinging again almost immediately after his miss. He goes for the leg closest to him, swinging the baton almost as if it were a golf club.

The leg snaps and the spitter cannot stabilize itself. It falls against the wall and then quickly drops to the floor. James is on it almost immediately, bringing his foot down on its neck. The force of the kick sprays water out from James's soaking shoe in a small circle. The radio is silent.

The confrontation with this spitter has been the fastest since he started using the baton and he is pleased with the outcome. And that takes the edge off of his disappointment as he runs into another dead end less than ten feet from where the spitter lays.

He goes back to the ladder, scratches an X over the left arrow and then scratches another one pointing right. He collapses the baton and heads right, stopping occasionally to press water out of his shoes. The hall twists left and then he is at another ladder leading down. He shines the light below. It looks like another sewer. He grunts and starts climbing down the ladder.

He gets to the bottom. The water has gotten deeper again; it rises to the middle of his shin. The sewer again runs left and right. The radio is alive. There are two of them; the water allows him to count the number of footsteps in the sewer. One set seems to be off to his left somewhere, the other set is further away.

He goes right, intending to delay a confrontation with the first spitter. The corridor turns right after thirty feet. _Christ, all these turns,_ he thinks,_ what did that post say? "pay thy way to the Labyrinth"? That's a good name for this place, Labyrinth—hell, it's even got a Minotaur._

The footsteps of the first spitter grow quieter, but the other spitter's get louder. The hallway angles right after fifteen feet. James starts to move more slowly, trying to get a fix on the second spitter's location. Another right turn. The spitter has to be somewhere ahead now. He can hear it splashing in the water. He frowns; he might have to fight it if he does not find another exit.

Perhaps the thing I like most about the Labyrinth is that it never fails to bring Their predatory instincts to the forefront.

He immediately begins to devise a strategy for killing it. He could always wait around the corner and ambush it then, but that would take time and he is growing impatient. He has been hesitant about a straight out charge because the spitters still have the advantage of range. But his tactical situation is slightly different in the deeper water than it is on the upper halls. He has always been faster than the spitters, but the deeper water has increased that disparity. The water below is still reasonably clear; he could rinse himself in it if he needed to. _If I run and keep my hand in front of my face, I could probably take it out before it has a chance to spray me_.

His plan is risky, but it works. The speed and ferocity of his charge stuns the spitter like a deer on a road, watching the twin headlights of death and listening to the squeal of brakes that have been engaged too late. He puts the full force of his momentum into the strike. Even if he had not cracked the spitter's skull in half, the impact of his body weight alone would have knocked it off of its feet. It does not even have time to shriek before it falls into the water with a splash and sinks to the bottom.

He pauses and listens. The other spitter has increased its speed, though it is still far away. He runs down the length of the corridor, hoping to find another ladder before the spitter catches up with him. It gets closer and closer, but then the hall splits, with a side corridor on his right. It is not very long, but there is a ladder. He races over, collapses the baton and begins his climb. He is about halfway up when he hears the spitter enter the corridor. He starts climbing faster. He has never seen the spitters spray upward so he has no idea of their range. It is possible that the joints in their neck or the tautness of their skin could prevent them from looking up, but it is a chance he is unwilling to take. He doubles his speed; he is at the manhole when he hears the thing gurgle, but he has no idea if it actually spat at him and he has no inclination to find out.

He hauls himself back onto the now familiar wood panel floor, panting with exhaustion from his forced climb. But there is no rest for him in this part of the Labyrinth as the radio's static has not ceased. He stands up and looks around. The hallway in front of him turns to the left about six feet in. There are no monsters immediately in front of him and he cannot hear any footsteps, yet.

He extends the baton and goes around the corner. The paint on the walls has begun to blister with the occasional scrap falling off. The hall splits into another T intersection. He can hear faint footsteps now. He scratches an arrow pointing left on the wall, but the blisters in the paint flake off, making it look more like a blotchy semicircle. He heads left and the footsteps grow fainter. The hall twists left and then abruptly stops at another dead end. _Damn it_.

He goes back the way he came. He stops long enough to scratch an X over his semicircle, but the net result is more paint falling off and the semicircle becomes a messy square, but he does not really care so long as his path has been marked. Up ahead, the footsteps grow louder and he can make out two sets walking side by side.

He has not been expecting this. The only time he has ever had to deal with more than one spitter without the gun was just after he received the Warning. Then he had plenty of maneuverability due to the open streets. But here he does not. Like most of Them, he has learned the value of aggression in the Labyrinth and so he does not wait to back himself into a corner. He dashes forward. His plan this time is to rush in and then stop just out of range. He hopes this will trick the creatures into spitting too early.

He sees them appear out of the flashlight's range. He halts himself, the wet soles of his shoes squeak as he does so. The one on the right sprays. He then lunges for it, mindful that if he stops too long, the spitter on the left will get him. The baton catches the spitter on the shoulder, but it does not drop. He follows through on his lunge and slams the creature with his shoulder. He expects it to fall to the floor, but instead it twists and slams against the wall. James freezes in panic as he realizes he is caught between the two spitters. But instead of spraying, the left spitter begins to shuffle forward.

James shakes off his paralysis, turns and brings the end of the baton down on the fallen spitter's head. He then spins and hits the second spitter across the side of its face, just as it has turned to face him. Without skipping a beat, he brings the baton back across, striking the other side of the creature's face. The two blows in rapid succession make it stumble. But James ignores all this as he brings the baton down in an overhead swing that cracks the spitter's skull. It drops to its knees and then falls flat on its face. The radio is silent.

He leans against the wall and regains his breath. He looks back at the spitters. By all accounts he should be grateful for his survival. But something makes him frown. _They had me right between them, why did one of them go forward?_ He looks at the angles and then the answer hits him. _Because if it sprayed from where it was standing, it would have hit the other one_. The spitters were immune to their own spray and he assumed that they would be immune to the spray of other spitters. _But maybe they aren't._

He continues down the passage. It splits into another T intersection. He has given up on arrows and simply scratches the wall to indicate he is going to the left. His shoes ooze water with every step, and he wants to dump them out. But he comes to another ladder and a quick look down tells him emptying his shoes of water will be a waste of time.

Nevertheless, he stops to rest. He is growing tired and he considers letting himself doze off. He thinks knowing Maria is alive will banish the bad dreams that have come to him in the past. But thinking of Maria reminds him that she is still trapped in her cell, which is not all that far from Pyramid Head's lair with its industrial fan, sculpted mannequins, inverted corpses, and bloody tools.

He gives himself two minutes to rest. He closes his eyes, but resists the temptation to lean his head back. He slowly counts off two minutes in his head. As he nears the end of his count, he takes out the small key Maria gave him back in her cell. The smell of her perfume still lingers on it. He puts it away and stands back up. The ladder awaits.

The water below is deeper, coming up to the bottom of his knees. He finds himself in a square room, perhaps fifteen feet by fifteen feet. There is a corridor going to his right and another one going straight ahead. The radio is loud in his ear though he can hear the spitters that come for him down both corridors. He listens to the footsteps and swears. There are two creatures in each hallway. If he does not think of something soon, he will be fighting four spitters in an enclosed space with nothing but his baton.

He switches off the flashlight to buy himself a little more time. With the light gone, the creatures move more slowly, perhaps sensing some sort of ambush. An idea forms. He makes his way over to the corner of the room that lies between the two corridors and listens carefully to the splashing sounds of the water. They walk in unison. He waits for them, his back against the corner. Though he has committed himself, doubts begin to float in his head as he stands there in the darkness. _These things must be able to see in the dark, maybe they can sense each others presence, maybe they won't enter at the same time, maybe I was wrong about the last pair of spitters, maybe, maybe, maybe…maybe I'm going to fucking think myself to death._

The spitters enter the room at almost the same time. He waits a second and then leans forward, careful not to make any splashing in the water near his real position, and uses the baton to pound the water's surface, trying to mimic footsteps in the water. He then quickly pulls back against the corner as he hears all four spitters gurgle. There is a hissing of spray and then all four scream as each pair showers the other in their caustic discharge.

He clicks on the flashlight and goes to his right. All four spitters stand convulsing and shrieking, indifferent to his presence. Just to be sure though, he hits the pair closest to him hard across their backs to further delay any pursuit before he runs down the corridor.

He does not hear them give chase, but the radio retains its volume. He worries about more spitters ahead of him. Then he sees a flicker of movement in the water. He turns the flashlight down. Something is swimming just below the water's surface. The ripples in the water give it a blurry texture, but he is still able to make out the spindly legs and writhing body. _These things can swim? Well, why the hell not?_ But he continues running; underwater, its spittle would be too diluted to have an effect on him, so he does not perceive any danger.

At least not until it tries to put itself under his left foot. It throws off his balance and he almost tumbles forward into the water. _Bastard's not trying to kill me, its trying to get me wet._ A fall in water this deep would soak him up to the waist, rendering the gun and one of the ammo clips useless. A bad fall would put him completely underwater. The flashlight is waterproof, but he would lose his map of Silent Hill, the other clip, and Mary's letter. He also worries about the radio, not knowing that it is waterproof—allowing it to be damaged that would violate the rules Metatron has laid out for me. Then, there is the sanitation of the water to consider. Dirty water can contain a myriad of bacteria and other infectious agents. A fall would soak the bandages on his arms and could end up infecting his wounds.

He swings at it underneath the water, but it is too quick. He continues moving forward, slightly slower. It darts under his left foot again, but this time he is prepared. He keeps his weight centered on his right foot while he stomps with the left. Rather than damage it with his foot, he keeps it pinned underneath his shoe. He then grips the baton with both hands and thrusts it under the water. The end is too blunt to actually run the creature through or even cut the membrane, but it does enough damage to cripple the spitter. He quickly thrusts again just to be safe, but his goal is escape and he resumes his run almost immediately.

There is more movement in the water and a spitter begins to rise up. He swats it aside with a swing of the baton and continues running. A side passage appears on his right, but he can see a ladder straight ahead and he continues towards that. Something is pursuing him, he can hear the water splash, but he is at the ladder already. He collapses the baton, stows it away and begins to climb; the sounds of his pursuers are getting louder and louder. He is near the top when he hears something gurgle and spray below, but it does not reach him.

He pulls himself up through the manhole and onto the floor. The radio is silent and he stops to rest. Water seems to pour from his pants and shoes. This time, he cannot ignore it. He sits down and removes his shoes and socks. He dumps the water out of his shoes and leaves them upside down on the floor to let them drain. He puts his socks aside for the moment and concentrates on wringing the water out of the legs of his pants. It is awkward to do so while wearing them, but he manages to get a satisfactory amount out. Feeling his feet begin to chill, he turns his attention to his socks. As he sits and wrings every bit of moisture he can out of them, he looks around the room for the first time.

It is not very large and in some ways resembles the entrance room in its size and the plain wooden door across from the manhole. The paint in the room is peeling and scraps of it line the floor next to the walls. Strangely, the paint on the door is perfectly intact; in fact, it almost looks fresh. Then, right next to the door, he sees a newspaper page stained with blood. _Odd_, he thinks, _but then what down here isn't?_

I had thought it would take him longer to get through that last sewer. Their violent nature tends to make Them linger and try to kill everything the Labyrinth throws at them. But he has made better time than most. Which is why, when he finishes with his socks, he will walk over to the newspaper, read the article and, despite the bloodstains making many parts illegible, realize he has climbed out of his Labyrinth and entered Angela's.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The blood spots have blotted out many of the letters, but he is able to make out most of the print.

_The bod f a man later identified as Thoma Oro_

_a lumbjack in his late thirties waound in the wreckage _

_of his hos where he lived w his family._

_A fire bro out in the e around st night. The remains of _

_Mr.sco 's s ,d, ge were found in his bedroom clo . _

_Firemen managed to s his daugh , Ang , age , who was _

_brought out scrming, "Come out! Come out!"_

_The unusual thing about this se is that Mr. Or_

_cause of dea was not relaed to the fire. H suffered multiple_

_stab wounds to the front of the neck and the upper torso. The _

_coroner belies that there were more wounds that re obscur_

_by burns on the corpse. The estimated ti of deat s just befe_

_the fire broke out._

_Police are considering this a homicide investion. Preliminary_

_evid shows the fire started next to sco though the _

_accelerant in fire was a fauy gas pipe which sugges the_

_fe itslf was an aciddt. A spokesn for the lice howevr, _

_said it is too ea to rule ou arson._

_Mr. Oro had a history f alcohol related arrests and_

_veral assault charges. Polic believe the motive may have_

_been peral._

_Mrsco's wife was visit a relae at the time of fire._

_She could nt be reached for comment. _

He cannot make out any other text in the newspaper. He goes to the door and opens it. The hallway beyond is lit by overhead lights. He clicks the flashlight off and steps inside.

The cream color of the walls begins to give way as newspapers are plastered over the walls and ceiling. They all have the same headline:

**MURDER BY FIRELIGHT**

He is about to read one of the articles when a scream breaks the silence.

"_Daddy no! Please! Not again!_"

It comes from behind a door just down the hall on the right hand side. It is a woman's voice and definitely belongs to Angela. He races over to the door. Like the hallway, it too, is completely covered in newspapers with that same prominent headline. He quickly turns the knob and forces the door open.

Angela's nightmare is a bizarre one. The room is also lined with newspaper, but the ink has run and they are all illegible sheets of newsprint. At shoulder height, a row of holes lines all four walls. At regular intervals, the bronze disc of a pendulum swings through them, making the tick-tock of a grandfather clock. In the corner of the room is an old, rabbit-ear television set resting on a small table. Angela sits next to it with her knees huddled close to her. She stares down at the ground and seems to be whispering something to herself over and over. In her left hand is the knife she had back at the apartment and he silently curses himself for not having disposed of it better. But something else distracts him from the knife.

It is across from Angela. The shape of its base is almost a perfect rectangle, like a legless table or a fallen door. It is covered by a thick membrane and, not unlike the spitters, there are things bulging and writhing inside of it. At times, the shapes inside appear vaguely manlike, but the shifting never maintains the same form for long. At the end closest to Angela is a large oval protrusion in its skin that resembles an eyeless head. A large dark hole on it opens and closes like a giant mouth. The thing's skin is covered in a layer of sticky blood and there are a series of black spots around it that resemble burns, some even still have tiny wisps of smoke rising off of them. The creature makes a noise that sounds like a growl made underwater as it slowly slithers up to Angela; her whispers and her focus on the ground seem to be part of an effort to ignore the creature in front of her.

_Tick…Tock_

"Angela!" James tries to get her attention. She responds by staring harder at the ground and whispering faster. The thing moves closer and growls again, that dark mouth growing wider and Angela starts to cry.

"Hey!" James shouts at the thing, "Get away from her!" He does not really expect a response from it and indeed, he gets none. _But this should get its attention_, he thinks as he pulls the gun. The head is too close to Angela for him to risk shooting it there, so he aims slightly further down its back and shoots his last two bullets into it.

The bullets leave small holes in the membrane that ooze dark red blood. The thing's mouth widens in a snarl and it slithers around to face James. He holsters the gun and takes out the baton. The creature is low on the ground and does not seem to move all that fast; he should have little trouble fighting it with the baton.

_Tick…Tock_

But the thing surprises him. It begins to raise itself off of the ground with two humanoid legs extending out from underneath it. The skin on them has been burned away and, except for a few charred patches, he can see its muscles and tendons flex and pull as it moves.

It rises almost to James's height and growls that watery growl. The legs are located almost at the very back of the creature, which should give it poor weight distribution and a slightly comical appearance. Indeed, it seems to wobble back and forth as it takes a tentative step towards James. But it only fools him for a second. He notices the creature's movements follow a regular pattern, left-back-right-forward, and he realizes the reason for the wobbling is not to correct its balance, but rather to camouflage sudden movements.

_Tick…Tock_

Because of the creature's superior bulk, he decides a hit and run strategy is best. He lunges forward and strikes the creature on the side of the head. It snarls and he jumps to the side as it tries to charge him. He lunges in again and swings at the head. But the creature surprises him again. It turns its head quickly; its mouth stretches and contorts grotesquely and grabs the baton and pries it out of his hands. "Shit!" he swears aloud.

The thing turns its body to face him and spits the baton aside. James has enough sense to follow its movement until it lands in the corner opposite the television. _I can get to it if I can just make this thing move a little bit more_, he thinks. But for the moment, he is unarmed and too close to the creature. He jumps back as it thrusts its body forward, trying to ram him. It comes up short and he begins to circle it, trying to keep himself off of its line of attack. It begins to rotate to face him, but it is not fast enough to stop him when he suddenly sprints past it to the corner and retrieves the baton. He turns around.

_Tick…Tock_

The creature moves on him faster than he expects and it is already within striking range as soon as he turns. He swings an overhead blow and hits it on top of the rounded bulge of its head. It snarls and pulls its body back. James mistakenly thinks it is recoiling in pain, but the monster has in fact brushed it aside and is winding up for its own strike. So he is caught by surprise when it suddenly springs forward and slams into his midsection, knocking him to the floor and forcing the air from his lungs. He weakly tries to ward off another hit with the baton, but the creature tilts its body down and uses the mouth to snatch the baton out of his hand again. It spits it down on the ground underneath itself and then uses its foot to kick the baton to the far side of the room before rearing itself back up.

James rolls to his right, sucking down air, trying desperately to re-inflate his contracted diaphragm. The creature hits the floor with a heavy thud right next to him. He cannot get his breath back fast enough to get back onto his feet. Worse still, rolling to his right has trapped him in the corner. The thing turns to face him and rears up for another strike, intending to kill him by bringing its full weight down on his head.

_Tick…Tock_

Ironically, this manifestation of Thomas Orosco has made the same mistake the real Thomas did on that fateful night: assuming a girl who is crying in a corner has no intention of attacking.

Angela holds the knife in a reverse grip as she runs up behind the creature and slices its hamstrings. She is not strong enough to sever them, but the right one is substantially damaged. The creature can no longer support the weight of its upper body and it shakes from side to side and this time it is no feinting movement. It tries to keep its balance but the stress is too much for its injured hamstrings; both tear and begin to hemorrhage blood on the floor. The monster's legs give out and it falls to the ground.

_Tick…Tock_

Its head snarls and twists and it tries to slither, but the crippling of its legs has made it too slow. Angela dashes to the corner and picks up the television. She walks back to the creature, and raises it high over her head. With a fierce snarl of her own, she brings the television, screen first, crashing down on the creature's head. Its impact has the sounds of breaking glass, crunching metal, and cracking bone. Blood splatters across her face and clothes. The creature burbles weakly and then lays still, blood flowing out in a ring around the remains of its head.

_Tick…Tock_

James lies still, staring up at the ceiling, taking deep breaths and listening to the ticking of the pendulums in the wall. He can hear Angela start to cry. He finds his strength again and sits up. He sees Angela on her knees, weeping. She holds the knife just above her wrist and the first hesitation cut has already been made.

"Angela, no!" He shouts as he scrambles over to where she kneels. His shout makes her look up and pause long enough for him to grab her arm and try to wrestle the knife out of her hand. She resists him and in his weakened state, it is a struggle to get it away from her.

"Give it back!" She hisses at him when he finally prevails.

"No," he says, backing away from her and silently cursing himself again for leaving the knife in the drawer. "I told you, there's always a better way."

"What do know about it?" She snarls at him. Then she looks at him again and her expression softens, though the effect is ruined by the blood on her face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I get it now. You're trying to be nice to me. Be the virtuous hero." Her face hardens, and her lips move in a sneer. "After all, we know what the girls do for the heroes." A cynical laugh "You always want the same thing."

"That's not true." He tries to keep calm.

"Oh just admit it. I know that's what you wanted when you came after me in the bathroom."

"What—?"

"Not even _he_ would come for me there. But _you_—come on, I can see it on your face." She steps towards him.

"No. It's not true." He says, nervous at her aggressive posture, but determined to hold his ground.

She looks at him, her face softens again and her voice becomes deceptively saccharine, "Maybe not. You said your wife was dead?"

Grateful for a change in subject, even one as painful as this, he responds, "Yeah. She was ill and—"

"Liar." She whispers at him, "You didn't want her around anymore."

"No, I—"

"You found someone else." She gives him a mocking smile.

His irritation begins to show, "That's not true!"

"Yes it is." She brings her bloody face right next to his and her voice takes on a new edge, "That's why you came here. You're looking for her…"

"What are you—?"

"Well, don't look at me!" She shouts, her face hardening again. "I'm not your little piece on the side!" Then her eyes start to water. "Doesn't matter though. You could just _make_ me do it." Tears start to drip out of her eyes, quickly turning the spots of blood on her cheeks into streaks. Her voice cracks as she says, "Force me. You're strong, just beat me up like…like—like he always did." She sobs a few times, then her face hardens again and she runs over to the fallen monster and starts kicking it; she begins with snarls but they soon become sobs again.

"Angela," He starts to put his hand on her shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" She hisses at him and then starts clawing at the creature's bloody skin.

"Angela." He says again.

"_You_ make me _sick_." Her voice is not as directed this time and he wonders if she is still talking to him, or to the monster, or perhaps, to herself. She claws harder at the creature; its blood is beginning to cover her fingers like an ulcerous second layer of skin.

He is about to say something again, but there is a creak from the door. He looks over at it sharply, but sees nothing. But he hears Angela whisper "Donny?"

He turns back to her. She has raised her blood spattered face up to the door. "Oh god, no." She says in a quiet voice as she jumps to her feet "No, no, no, no, no, no…" She repeats over and over as she darts out of the room. He is too tired to run after her and more than just a little disturbed by her mood swings, so he stands there as the pendulums in the wall continue to tick off the seconds.

_Tick…Tock. Tick…Tock, Tick…Tock_

He retrieves the baton and puts it back in its pouch. The knife presents the same problems as it did before, only now leaving it here is _not_ an option. He goes over to the wall and scrapes off as much newsprint as he can. He then wraps the blade in it. It takes several pages, but eventually it is thick enough to keep the knife's edge from working its way out. He tucks it into his belt, next to the holster. It is not a comfortable fit, but it will do until he finds a place to dispose of the knife.

He exits the room, leaving the tick-tock of the holes behind him.

With Angela gone, James steps back into his own Labyrinth of peeling walls and scuffled wooden floors. There is another plain door at the end of the hall to his right. He passes through it and enters another hallway. There are two metal doors, one on his left, one on his right, and at the end of the hall, a set of large, shiny, stainless-steel bars.

He goes to the bars first. By now, he knows better than to expect to be able to pass them without going through the other two doors, but he needs to see what he should be looking for. The bars are part of a gate that is designed to rise through the ceiling. The gate is raised by turning a steel wheel located on the wall just next to the gate. However, thick chains have been wrapped between the spokes of the wheel and then around through the bars, preventing the wheel from being turned enough to raise the gate. The chains are held tightly together by a large antique lock which, in contrast to the shiny metal of the bars, wheel, and chains, is old and rusted. "Hmm." He says, and makes his way back to the doors.

He goes into the one on his right first. The room is lit by yellow overhead lights. There is a wall directly in front of him and the room opens up to his right. On the wall, in what looks like charcoal, someone with an unsteady hand has written:

_**Dead men, dead men**_

_**Swinging in a tree**_

_**How many dead men**_

_**Do you see?**_

_**Tongue turned blue**_

_**And face gone gray**_

_**Watch them as they **_

_**Twist and sway!**_

_What the hell?_ He wonders. But the meaning becomes apparent as soon as he steps to his right. Six nooses hang in the center of the room, arranged in a row, and each one is wrapped around the neck of a corpse.

Their clothing resembles that of the man on the courtyard gallows, though their prison uniforms seem slightly more ragged and their hoods have faded from black into a dark gray. They appear almost identical; time and death have eaten away most of their distinguishing features. As he moves closer to the first of the men, he can see that "skeleton" would be a more appropriate term for them rather than "corpse"; there is more yellow bone than withered flesh on their limp hands. The moisture has nearly left their bodies; the only odor they exude is from stains on their garments. Thus the room has the musty smell of an old tomb rather than the noxious reek of an untended morgue. As he walks closer he sees each of the dead men has a small piece of paper, yellowed with age, nailed to their chest. He walks up to the first man and looks at the paper:

_This man was hung for the crime of swindling,_

_Justice and vengeance have been served._

The writing is in neat cursive and black ink, and was perhaps an official warrant of some kind. Although the message implies that the note was attached posthumously, a small brown drizzle starting at the nail and running down to the bottom indicates his heart was still beating at the time of its attachment. He moves on to read the warrant on each of the men:

_This man was hung for the crime of kidnapping. Justice and vengeance have been served._

_This man was hung for the crime of arson. Justice and vengeance have been served._

_This man was hung for the crime of counterfeiting. Justice and vengeance have been served._

_This man was hung for the crime of grave bodily injury. Justice and vengeance have been served._

_This man was hung for the crime of murder. Justice and vengeance have been served._

_Strange_, he thinks, _I wouldn't think some of these are capital crimes. But maybe they were back then_. After the very last man, there is another charcoal poem on the wall:

_**Dead men, dead men**_

_**Swinging in a tree**_

_**How many dead men**_

_**Do you see?**_

_**Six feet long and**_

_**Six men wide**_

_**Round their necks**_

_**The noose be tied!**_

There is something hideously gleeful in the poem. It seems almost like a schoolyard chant. Indeed, the handwriting even seems childlike, though it does not seem to him that any child could reach high enough to the write the poem. The rest of the room is empty apart from the corpses and James has no desire to stay around. He goes back out to the hall and enters the other door.

The room is the same, with a wall in front of him and the room opening up to his right. A notice in black letters is pinned on the wall:

**Only the sinless one can help you here. **

**Mistakenly pull on a criminal's rope and your reward will be returned to you in a shape most wondrously strange.**

He frowns and turns to his right. There are six empty nooses hanging in the center of the room and a scrap of yellowed paper at his feet. He bends over and picks it up. It is a page that has been torn out of a diary. The author wrote in neat cursive and, from the words, was an inmate on death row:

_I do not wish to die._

_But tomorrow I will climb_

_the thirteen steps._

_Please someone - answer me,_

_why must I die come morning?_

_The man imprisoned beside me_

_believed me. "Because they're_

_all insane, that's why," he said._

_Of course I know his opinion_

_will change nothing. "Now you_

_know why I struck out at them,"_

_he muttered._

_The man who was executed_

_yesterday, the one who had_

_claimed his job was to sell dreams,_

_said that was not true._

_But the man who is to be executed_

_the day after tomorrow for stealing_

_children shouted back that it was_

_true._

_The man who was hung today_

_did not answer. "They'll kill me_

_either way," he said. "That's_

_what happens when you play_

_with fire." the guards told him _

_as they took him away._

_The man who is always quietly_

_smiling to himself said "I am_

_happy for I will soon be with her."_

_I do not wish to die._

_I long only to return home._

_But I know it is not to be._

_Though I have done nothing, this_

_crime has been thrust upon me._

_Someone save me. This is not_

_judgment. They are bloodthirsty_

_and I am their sacrificial lamb!_

He reads it again, just to be certain he understands its meaning. _I'll be damned, another riddle_. He looks at the row of nooses and realizes he cannot remember the order of the criminals. He goes back out to the hall and into the other room. He quickly memorizes the order and repeats it to himself until he gets back into the empty noose room. He takes the knife out of his belt and unfolds the newspaper from around it. Still repeating the order of the criminals, he goes to the first noose and carves an S in the floor underneath it; then a K under the next noose, then an A, then a C, then a B, and finally, an M.

The letters are crude, but they are only needed as memory aids. Carving into the floor is not good for the knife's edge, but with this knife, he figures the duller, the better. Satisfied with his work he turns his attention to the diary.

_Okay, the first two paragraphs—that's probably just him whining. Next "'Because they're all insane...now you know why I struck out at them'". Right, that has to be one of the violent offenders—murder or bodily injury, maybe the arsonist._ He taps his foot. _Hmm, move on…"said his job was to sell dreams"—must be the swindler or counterfeiter—still kind of ambiguous. "stealing children"—now that's easy._ He walks over to the K and carves an X over it. _Kidnapper's guilty. Next…"that's what happens when you play with fire"—another easy one, arsonist's guilty._ He puts an X over the A. _Next, "I am happy for I will soon be with her…"—Okay, he's talking about someone he loved who's dead. That could be any of four of them…except…_He thinks hard_…most murders are committed by family members so—_

A shame he is not aware of the irony.

—He puts an X over the M_…murderer's guilty. And that means so is the bodily injurer._ He crosses out the B. _So…swindler or counterfeiter? "Sell dreams…"—Well dreams aren't necessarily real, but they aren't things you can forge either. So that would imply that he was the swindler…_ An X over the S_…and that makes the counterfeiter our innocent man_. He walks over to the C and pulls the noose. There is a click, but nothing else happens. _Did I get it wrong?_ He looks and listens intently, _no, maybe the answer's in the other room…_

He folds the newspaper back over the knife and exits the room. He goes across the hall again to the room of the executed. It is strange how knowledge can affect one's perceptions. When James first entered this room, the men were all alike to him. But now, knowing each of their crimes he picks out subtle differences in each. One hand of the swindler seems slightly more open than the other, as if he were offering a handshake and something about the way the folds of his hood are arranged suggests that he is smiling a duplicitous smile underneath. The kidnapper seems thinner and a little shorter than the other men and one index finger seems slightly bent, as if beckoning. He thinks he can see dark stains on the arsonist's hands and as he walks by, he swears he can almost smell kerosene on the man's clothes. The bodily injurer seems larger than the other men and his digits seem curled, as though trying to make fists even though the muscles to do so have long since withered away. Only the murderer appears the same as before, perhaps because, as the diary said, he was the only man to truly be at peace with his execution.

One man is missing, however. The fourth noose down is empty; there is no trace of the counterfeiter except for the warrant that proclaims his crime lying on the floor underneath. The paper rests atop two small boxes stacked together. Picking it up, he finds an antique key with a square head taped to the back. He puts it in his pocket and looks to the boxes. The first box is slightly smaller than the second; there is handwriting on it and James recognizes the cursive of the innocent man:

_Salvation._

_Thank you._

The box contains thirty bullets and the second one contains fifty. He gives silent thanks to his deceased benefactor as he quickly reloads all his spent clips. He then tucks the fifty-pack into his jacket and leaves the five guilty men to their fate.

The key fits the lock on the chains, but the rust makes it difficult to turn. After a tremendous amount of effort and a loud scraping noise, the lock comes off. He quickly uncoils the chains and starts turning the wheel. It makes a series of clicking noises and the gate rises into the ceiling.

Beyond is another rusted ladder and manhole. He had hoped he was finished with ladders and sewers, but the small victory of the puzzle and his fresh stock of bullets buoy his spirits enough for him to make at least one more descent.

He is, in fact, nearly at the end. However, They cannot leave the Labyrinth until the entire hand has been played. And there is still one high card left for James.


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Another ladder, another sewer, and another pair of spitters. James has grown weary of this routine and half an hour ago he would have been tempted to retreat back up the ladder. But things have changed for him. The water level has dropped to no more than the depth of a puddle; this, combined with a fully loaded magazine and bullets to spare, makes the gun is the more attractive option. He kills both creatures in two shots. He fires a third, just to release a little pent up aggression. The radio is silent.

He walks down the hall. The walls are not as dark as they had once been and the air somehow seems relatively fresher. Another hall branches off from this one to the right. The floor there turns to concrete. He would be tempted to turn off here, except just ahead is a small flight of concrete steps that leads up to a metal door with a small viewing window and a food slot. He can see the window has bars on it, but more important is the fluorescent light that emanates from the room beyond them.

He races up the stairs. A metal bolt on the outside of the door makes its occupant a prisoner. He pulls it out and opens the door carefully. He keeps the gun ready, just in case. While there _is_ danger in the room, the gun is of no use against it.

She has turned the chair to face the door and she sits there with her legs crossed, hands on her thighs and that dreamy expression on her face.

A brief glance tells him the room is devoid of monsters and he holsters the gun, "Maria, are you okay?"

"I'm just lovely, James." she says as she stands up and smiles at him, "Why don't you come see for yourself?" She fixes her hypnotic blue eyes on him; the smell of her perfume washes over him and he is lost.

He walks over to her, entranced, "Maria, I—"

She puts a finger to her lips and says, "You don't have to say anything."

_Something's wrong!_ His mind screams at him, but he does not care. "There's a lot I want to say…"

"James," she smiles her lop-sided smile, "you don't need to be a gentleman here."

He inhales her aroma again; this is the smell he has always associated with a woman. Freshly applied perfume with traces of soap and shampoo from the shower she would have finished just a few minutes ago. It is, of course, not the only smell he remembers from his years with Mary, but it is the smell that connects him with the moment he fell in love with her. She had come out of her bedroom wearing a black cocktail dress and her hair down. He sat on the sofa, doing a crossword while waiting for her. She came up behind him, put her hands on top of his shoulders and gently massaged them. He lifted his head up from the cross word and relaxed. She leaned her head down and kissed him. She then glanced at the crossword and whispered, "Epic," in his ear and they kissed again. He remembers her fragrance, the feel of her hands, the sound of her voice, and the taste of her lips before he quickly scribbled E-P-I-C in the boxes. "Let's go." She said. Though nothing had really happened, he realized he could be happy spending the rest of his life doing everything or doing nothing, as long as it was with her. She had to work the day after tomorrow, but he did not. That was the day he bought the ring. And here in this dark town, in this dark Labyrinth, the memory comes back to him as he stands before this woman and gazes into her eyes.

Build the attraction—

He is so caught up in the memory that he is not aware of the kiss until it has already happened. He remembers putting his hand gently on her warm cheek. He remembers bending closer to her. He remembers feeling her hot breath on his face. He remembers her pressing her body against him. But it is not until she wraps her arms over his neck that he notices the feel of her lips on his. His tongue registers no real taste beyond the slight waxy texture of her lipstick, but his mind thinks of cinnamon as he moves past her lips and into her open mouth.

It is not a kiss of extreme passion, but rather a kiss of potential. It is the first kiss of lovers-to-be on their fated night. It is the kiss that starts by asking, "Are we?" and then answers, "Yes." It is the first kiss he and Mary had in his apartment after their sixth date; the first kiss after he got down on one knee and she said "yes"; the first kiss on their wedding night; and the first kiss behind the statue of the angel in Rosewater Park so many years ago. He loses himself in it and waits for it to turn into the second kiss. Her body stiffens against him.

—and **_DESTROY_** him with it.

Now his tongue does register a taste. It is a very slight metallic tang. He feels saliva begin to run out of her mouth and dribble down both of their chins. He laughs, and wipes his lips, but his fingertips come away red. Startled, he looks at her and sees blood trickling down from her mouth.

"James…" she whispers and with each word a fresh droplet of blood descends from her lips, "why…do…you…always…let…me…die…?"

"What? I—" and then he looks down at her body and sees the crimson spear sticking out of the left side of her torso. "No!" He shouts as it withdraws. Pyramid Head stands on the other side of the bars with the spear in his hands, poised for another thrust. The wooden door behind him is in splinters and the room beyond is dark.

James puts his body between Maria and the spear as he quickly takes her back to the bed, which, as fortune has it, is outside the reach of the spear. Still keeping himself between her body and the spear, he draws the gun and points it at Pyramid Head.

"Get away!" He shouts. Pyramid Head just stands there impassively. James fires one shot at him and shouts, "I said get away!" If the bullet hit, Pyramid Head gives no indication.

James is about to fire another round when Pyramid Head taps the butt of the spear on the floor and begins to withdraw from the room. James keeps the gun trained on him until he disappears into the darkness beyond the doorway.

He holsters the gun and turns back to Maria, who has begun to slump to the side. "Maria? Stay with me, Maria." He says, straightening her up and propping her back against the wall.

"James…" her whisper has become more of a croak and drops of blood still flow from her mouth with each word, "tell…me…I'm…not...going…to…die…"

He sits next to her and squeezes her hand, "You're going to be alright; the wound isn't that deep." Something nags at him, but he ignores it. Her hand has begun to chill, the blood from her mouth has dripped all over her chest and her eyes have started to glaze over.

"Maria! Stay awake!" He shakes her head.

"James…I…"

But these are to be her last words. Pyramid Head still skulks in the dark room beyond the door. He reverses his grip on the spear when James moves to Maria's side. With one swift motion, he steps back into the room and hurls the spear between the steel bars where it impales Maria through the neck and embeds itself into the wall with a loud _thwock!_

Maria's lips move in a scream, but the only noise is a wheeze with a slight gurgle on the end. Pyramid Head's aim is masterful, at least for his purposes; the spear struck without damaging her carotid arteries and only nicked her spinal column. Just her windpipe is damaged, thus leaving her to more extended death by oxygen deprivation in around five minutes.

James's shock quickly turns to anger. "You bastard! You fucking bastard!" He says, drawing the gun and running up to the bars. Pyramid Head is now unarmed and with the bars between the two of them, James has little concern for danger. "Why are you doing this!"

Pyramid Head, points a blood encrusted finger at him and then casually turns around, as if bored by his shouts. James empties the rest of his clip but the bullets have no physical effect on the monster. He does, however, stop and turns his helmeted face at James. James returns the look. Pyramid Head shakes his head and leaves James alone in the room.

Well, not entirely alone. Maria wheezes and gurgles again. James holsters the gun and goes to her.

"Maria?" But she cannot talk. The wheezes get shorter and the gurgles get longer as she lies against the wall with her lungs slowly filling with fluid. Her hands are cold and clammy, and they do not respond to his touch.

"Maria," he whimpers, "don't die…"

And this brings forth the memories of his final days with Mary. The smell of ammonia and iodine were in his nostrils as he sat in a hospital chair next to her bed, holding her hand and listening to the sounds of her wheezing breaths, each one bringing her a step closer to death and driving another needle into his heart. It was late afternoon on a Friday; she was always asleep by then. By that stage of her illness, conversation was an enormous effort and her mood swings would tire her quickly. But he would stay a while, mainly out of habit. Long before, he had thought knowing she was being looked after in her sleep made her feel a little better. But as time went on and her condition deteriorated, she grew more waspish and seemed to resent his prolonged visits. At least until he actually went to leave. Then her mood would change and she'd ask him to stay. And that is how it was on this day. Tomorrow was Saturday and he would have to work to make up for some lost hours and the hospital parking lot was always too crowded on Saturdays. He would come the day after tomorrow instead. But that was the day the hospital called him.

Maria's breathing is now more gurgle than wheeze; in a few seconds, she will make choking noises and a minute after that, she will die.

James looks away as the strangling noises begin; he is powerless to stop it and there is nothing he can do but wait for the end. He closes his eyes and tries to think of other things. But the only thought that comes to him is the image of a pair of blue eyes with three strands of brown hair hanging over them. They grow wider and wider as Maria's chokes get louder. But then they close and fade away. Maria is silent.

He counts to ten before looking at her, not wanting to see some last bubble of gas find its way to the surface of her throat. Her face, pale before, now has a slight bluish tint. The front of her blouse is completely soaked in blood. Her eyes have rolled back into her head and her mouth is agape. Her muscles have relaxed but the spear still holds her body upright, though it leaves her head tilted at an odd angle.

He does not want to leave her like this, her body dirty and disjointed. But there is little he can do. There is nothing he can use to wash the blood away; he will have to let it dry. Then there is her posture. It seems undignified to leave her hanging by a spear with her head so out of place. Even the dead men in their nooses seemed to have more decorum. He tries pulling the spear out, but it is stuck too far into the wall and it will not budge. He could try to pull her off the spear, but that would tear her neck even further. In the end, he just closes her eyes, clasps her hands, and puts her legs together. As he takes hold of her cold hands, he begins to feel the depression that came to him at Brookhaven rise again. And here, in the Labyrinth, there are no outsiders to distract him.

But I have spoken prematurely. A detail saves him. It is an infinitesimal detail, but it is enough to break the cloud of gloom that started to form over him. It happens as he is pushing her knees together and glances up at her blouse. It is buttoned only twice, the same as it was when he first met her in Rosewater Park. In the hospital, she had done a third button to cover the bruise on her stomach left by the mannequin just outside of the park. But the woman who lies before him has no such bruise. The wounds from her encounter with Pyramid Head in the hospital are gone; but if that incident had been wrought from his imagination like she had said, the bruise from the mannequin should still be there. But it is not.

_This isn't Maria. What's going on?_

There will be no stages for him this time. I want to keep him moving. If he is given time to ponder, he will not dwell on anger or despair or loneliness. Instead, he will focus on the goal his rational mind gave him back in Brookhaven and he will begin to notice assorted fallacies in his experiences and attempt to analyze them. I do not want him to pursue such thoughts. Not now.

_If Pyramid Head has a way into that side of the room, he'll have a way to get to this one_; the thought comes to him at my bidding and, fortunately, he obeys. He leaves the room and re-enters the sewer. He quickly descends the stairs and goes down the other corridor where the floor turns to cement. There is a rusty security gate like the ones he saw in the prison. Fortunately, this one is open and just beyond is a metal door, the last one he will see in the Labyrinth.

Suddenly remembering that the gun has an empty magazine, he reaches in his pocket for another clip and feels something small and sticky inside. He pulls it out; it is dark red and composed of metal. It takes him moment to recognize it, but he realizes it is the key Maria gave him on the other side of the bars. Only now, it is crusted with blood, and the smell of her perfume is long gone. With a surge of revulsion, he pitches it back into the sewer.

He opens the door and finds himself outside. Or at least, it seems like he is outside. There is grass—well-tended, green grass—beneath his feet. The air is the freshest he has breathed in a long time. But it still does not quite feel like the outside. He points the flashlight up and he sees the ceiling some twenty feet above his head. He frowns and wonders how grass could stay this green indoors.

Something else grabs his attention though. Just in front of him is a two-foot tall, gray headstone. Time and lichen have made the writing on it illegible. _What the hell? An underground cemetery?_ He shines the flashlight right and left. There are more headstones and a pile of wood poles, the kind that are used to mark grave plots. He walks by each of the headstones, trying to see if he recognizes any names. But they too, are illegible. He notices light fixtures on the ceiling. They are not on, but he wonders if they might be some sort of special ultraviolet lights to nourish the grass. He reaches walls on both sides. They look like gray cement, but a touch tells him they have simply been painted to appear like cement.

He moves forward, seeing more headstones. The first two are completely unreadable. Off to his right, though, is a worn black gravestone. Despite appearing older than the others, he can make out part of a name:

_Miriam K_

**Traitor**

He pauses, the only Miriam he can think of off the top of his head is Miriam Locane and this is obviously not her. He moves on, past two more blank stones. The next headstone is covered in lichen, but someone has very recently carved "**Walter Sullivan"** onto the stone. _Is this part of the prison? Did they have some kind of cemetery?_ He wonders, _no, the dates don't add up—fuck I don't care anymore, I just want out of this God-forsaken place._

Then, in the grass, he sees two sets of footprints. They are identical to the footprints in the Historical Society. It is now obvious to him that the large pair belongs to Eddie and he guesses, correctly, that the smaller pair belongs to Angela. Again, the overlapping pattern suggests that they were not traveling together. They lead to his left and he follows them; he follows them all the way to the Labyrinth's exits.

He sees Eddie's first. The larger set of prints terminates as a mound of freshly dug earth. Right next to it is a new gray headstone. Carved on it is a single name:

**Edward Dombrowski**

No date is given, and he wonders if the Labyrinth claimed his life somehow. But he rejects that idea, _Only if he literally buried himself_.

Angela's is next. Her prints end at another fresh mound of soil. The gravestone that marks it is a white cross that, like Eddie's, simply shows her name:

**Angela Orosco**

And finally he comes to his exit, although the exits are seldom obvious to Them at first. A three-by-six foot hole has been dug into the ground. The flashlight does not reveal a bottom. It does, however, reveal the writing on the granite tombstone that sits at the end of the hole:

**James Sunderland**

Despite all he has been through, seeing his name chiseled on that stone sends a shiver down his spine. Worse, he knows that there is only one way out of this graveyard. He stops to reload his empty magazine and then secures his things. Staying true to form, he takes a deep breath and jumps into his own grave. After he disappears into the hole, the earth around it slowly moves together and covers the grave with a fresh mound of soil.


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

There is no sensation of falling this time. The soil of the hole is suddenly replaced by the old paint of a wall. He is at the end of a hallway that looks very much like the hallways of the Labyrinth, though there are subtle differences. The walls are gray and the grain on the wood floor has a different pattern. Behind him is a fuse box, though when he opens it he finds the switches are all missing. There is also a power outlet in the corner and on the ceiling he can see a cable being run down the length of the hall. At the far end he can make out the red glow of an "Exit" sign.

As he walks down the hall he begins to feel a sharp chill in the air. It does not feel natural, or even supernatural for that matter, but man-made. As he draws closer to the exit sign, he can see mist floating out from underneath a metal door. He presumes the chill is caused by some sort of industrial refrigeration unit, though to produce that amount of mist it must be damaged in some way. He puts his hand on the door. A metal door is normally cool to the touch, but this one is beyond cool, it is cold, practically freezing. He opens it and steps into the next room.

He had expected this room to be part of a walk-in freezer, but it appears to be the generator room instead. Switches and fuse boxes adorn the left wall and there are various coiled cables below them. In one corner is what looks like an overturned food cart and a pile of metal bars. On the far wall is an airtight metal door, probably the entrance to the actual freezer room. The chill in this room comes from six ventilation tubes that have broken off of the wall and are pumping cold air into the room, creating the mist that floats around the room.

But there is more than just that. He counts five bodies, all men, lying around the sides of the room. They have all been killed recently as steam is still rising off of their inert forms. In the middle of the room stands Eddie, the revolver points down at one of the corpses. It looks as though smoke rises from the barrel, though it must be steam since James would have heard it fire even if he was behind the door.

"Jesus Eddie! What happened here?" James has already drawn his own suspicions, but he believes it is best to keep them to himself for the moment.

Eddie grins as he cocks and un-cocks the hammer of the revolver with a _cliiick-claaack _and finally decides it is time to tell the truth, "What's it look like? They always busted my balls." He points the gun at the first man, _cliiick_; he mimics a deeper-voiced man, "'You fat disgusting piece of shit! You make me sick!'" _claaack_. He giggles and points the gun at another man, _cliiick_, "'Fat-ass, ya ain't nothing but three hundred pounds of shit in a five pound sack!'" _claaack_. He spits on the man and turns the gun to the next corpse, _cliiick_, "And this asshole was like, 'Hey _Dum-_browski, Yer so ugly even yer mama hates yer fat guts!'" _claaack_.

Eddie turns to face James, his eyes are wild and stubble has grown on his face, accentuating his double chin; _cliiick,_ "Maybe he's right." He gestures at the first man, "Maybe I am just a fat, disgusting, piece of shit." _Claaack_. "But you know somethin' James? It doesn't fuckin' matter." _Cliiick_, his voice becomes a loud whisper, "It doesn't matter if yer smart or dumb, fat or thin, pretty or ugly…it's all the same once yer dead!" _Claaack._ He nudges the body with his foot, "And a corpse can't laugh." He giggles again. "Am I right James?" The question is. of course, rhetorical and Eddie continues before James can think of a response; his is voice is low and menacing and his lips are pulled tight against his gums, exposing his yellow, blocky teeth, "From now on, if _anyone_ makes fun of me…" _Cliiick,_ "…I'll kill'em!" He points the gun at his head, _Claaack_, "Just like that." Eddie gives another wheezing laugh and points the gun back at the ground. He winks at James and starts to leave the room through the refrigerator door.

"Eddie, are you sure you're okay?" James says as Eddie puts his hand on the door handle.

"Never better," Eddie responds as he opens the door with his back to James, but then he pauses, "Why do ya ask?"

"Well, you have to admit, you sound a little nuts."

And then, something wondrous happens. Eddie slams the door closed; the hammer cocks, _cliiick_, "I fucking _knew_ it!" He says as he turns to face James, "You too."

_Oh shit._ "Hey, Eddie I—"

A snarl appears on Eddie's face, "Yer just like the rest of 'em."

"I didn't mean anything—!"

"Don't bother! I get it. I really do." His nostrils flare, "You've been laughing at me ever since we first met, haven't ya? Thought it was pretty funny watching me puke in that toilet, huh?" Eddie glowers at him, "That guy in the refrigerator thought I was pretty funny too and just look what happened to him."

"Guy in the—?" But James does not have time to finish his sentence. Eddie points the gun at him. James sidesteps as soon as he sees Eddie's finger start to move. That alone would not save him. However, Eddie has been shooting at targets spawned by his deranged mind; targets that do not fight back; targets that simply freeze and beg for mercy when he points the gun at them; targets created only to die. So he aims for the smaller mark of James's head and he does not bother to correct when James moves. The gun goes off with the roar of thunder. Although he has moved, James can still feel the heat of the bullet as it goes past his left ear. But at least it has missed.

Eddie stares blankly, unable to comprehend why James is still standing when all those before have fallen. James, for his part, tries to pull the gun from its holster. Eddie's eyes suddenly come alert again when they see where James is moving his hand to and for a brief second, James thinks he is done for. But rather than taking another shot, Eddie bolts for the door. James gets the gun out, flips the safety off and fires one shot from the hip as Eddie goes through the door. A ping of metal tells James he missed and he races to the door before it closes.

The room beyond was originally a freezer, but the damage to the ventilation tubes has made it more of a refrigerator. Even so, the temperature amplifies the chill in James's damp shoes and lower pants and creates a thin layer of frost on the surface. Steam issues from his mouth with every breath he takes as he looks around. The room was used for meat storage and a virtual forest of cattle carcasses hang from meat hooks all over the ceiling. There is a clear path from the entrance door to a set of double doors some forty feet across the room; most likely intended to allow food carts to pass through. The light comes from six fluorescent tubes spread evenly over the ceiling. The glass on the lights is tinted slightly, giving the room a greenish cast. Mist from the coolant system swirls around the room, reminding him of the forest at the edge of town. The air is thick with the smell of coolant and raw meat. And somewhere in this room, Eddie lurks.

"Do ya know what it does to you, James?" The voice comes out of the mist, but the walls bounce the sound around and James cannot pinpoint its location. "When yer hated, picked on, spit on, just cause of the way ya look? When you've been laughed at yer whole fuckin' life? Nah, pretty boy like you wouldn't know a damn thing about it." James peers through the mist, but he cannot see Eddie anywhere. "That's why I ran away after I killed the dog. Ran away like a scared little girl." Eddie's voice becomes relaxed as he reminisces, "Yeah, I killed that dog. That little German Shepard. It was fun." He giggles, "It tried to chew its own guts out. Finally died all curled up in a ball and crying. Heh, just like that one in the painting…"

James moves a little further into the room, trying to find Eddie. He suddenly hears a slam and a click behind him. He whirls around, but Eddie is gone. He has, however, closed the door and engaged the lock. Then, the two lights on the left side of the room go out.

Eddie's voice comes out of the darkness, "Then '_He'_ came after me. I shot him too, right in the leg." Eddie laughs maniacally, "He cried more than the dog. Hah, gonna have a hard time playing football on what's left of his knee."

James eyes the darkness; _he's got to be in there somewhere. Maybe if I can just keep him talking…_"Do you really think it's okay to kill people just like that? Come on Eddie, you need help."

Eddie chortles in the dark, "Don't get all holy on me James. This town called you too."

"What?" Something in that phrase resonates with James, but this is no time for him to chase that feeling down.

There is glee in Eddie's voice, "What was it? Phone call? E-mail? Letter, maybe? You and me are the same, buddy. We're not like other people. Don't ya realize that?"

James is about to respond when his ear picks up a noise. It is a faint click followed by a metallic scraping sound. It is not a harsh scrape though, more like two smooth surfaces rubbing against each other. James places it in an instant. He has heard the noise before, at the firing range with his father-in-law. It is the sound of a revolver being loaded.

_Shit, that's why he didn't shoot me in the other room; he was out of bullets_. James curses himself for having lost a critical advantage. Worse still, he played into Eddie's hands; he was not talking to taunt James, he was trying to distract him from the noise he made while reloading. Eddie can probably see him from wherever he is and he will shoot him almost as soon as he finishes loading his gun. James does not wait for that to happen.

He shoots out the two lights on the right side of the room, leaving only the center aisle lit, and he jumps into the darkness as he hears thunder bellow out from the dark on his left. The bullet misses James, and punches holes through three of the hanging cattle before being stopped by the wall. In the dark, James rolls to his left and comes up in a crouch, his eyes watching the lit path, making sure Eddie does not try to cross over to his side. The hunt is on.

Oh, this is _magnificent_! I am not allowed to deliberately force physical confrontations between the Damned, but then I am not required to avert them either. So it is a rare, but marvelous, occasion when two of Them decide that the Other must die. Indeed, I err in calling it a hunt; a hunt implies a predator versus prey dynamic. But this…this is predator versus predator. The examples are numerous, from two wolf packs vying for the same territory in the woods, to two gladiators in a coliseum fighting before a frenzied crowd. The battlefields change, the arsenals differ, and the prizes are varied but the essence of the conflict is always the same: Two evenly matched beings discover that their existence cannot continue while the other still lives and engage in violent contest. Today, the arena is a meat locker in Silent Hill, the weapons are firearms, and the combatants are James Sunderland and Edward Dombrowski.

Both are equally ruthless in Their goals. Eddie's deadly intentions have been clear since he slammed the door shut. And, though he would never consciously admit it, James is just as merciless; he will not try to reason with Eddie; if he gets Eddie in the gun's sights, he will not play the honorable hero. There will be no, "Freeze!" or "Drop your weapon!" or "Let's talk this over!" No, he will do nothing of the sort. Instead, he will squeeze the trigger and spill that fat, disgusting piece of shit's blood across the walls! Oh, how I live for this!

I mean, of course, how I _used _to live for this. Such frivolities are meaningless in death, where there is only silence and rest.

They stalk each other in the dark; two killers separated by a lighted No Man's Land. They watch for movement on the other side and they listen for signs of the other though both their ears still ring from the sound of Eddie's gun. The acoustics of the room amplify noise, make absolute silence difficult; but those same acoustics also bounce sounds around and while each can hear the other make the occasional movement, the sound is too generalized for either of them to locate the other.

James takes stock of his situation while he switches magazines and puts in his wax earplugs. Eddie's gun holds six bullets, one of which he has already used, and he has no speed loader, meaning even if he has more bullets on him, once his five shots are used, James can run to the other side, turn on his flashlight and Eddie will be defenseless. James on the other hand has a gun with a ten-round clip—eleven actually since he has changed magazines with a round in the chamber; he has another full clip after that and if necessary, the seven round clip. Practice has made him quick on the reload, so that gives him the edge in terms of ammunition. Furthermore, Eddie's gun is the louder of the two and, with the sound amplified by the room and no ear protection, if Eddie does not space his shots properly, he will drive himself deaf.

James finds his advantages outnumber Eddie's, but he remains cautious. There is still one major advantage Eddie has over him: The revolver's power. Though he has only five shots remaining, Eddie's bullet penetrated three of the thick carcasses and still maintained a lethal velocity. James doubts that the pistol he possesses could penetrate even a single cow and even if it did, it would most likely lose too much momentum to be deadly. Therefore, Eddie can use the cattle as cover whereas James's only protection is the darkness. Furthermore, this gives Eddie the initiative; if James fires first and misses, Eddie will see his muzzle flash and immediately know James's location. Eddie, on the other hand, could shoot and then duck behind one of the hanging cows. _I've got to get him shooting first;_ _make him waste his ammo_, James thinks, but no ideas are forthcoming.

The weapons of Now are faster and deadlier than the weapons of old and so this clash of wits and will is over in less than a minute. It is James who makes the first mistake, but it is Eddie who makes the fatal one. James is moving carefully through the hanging meats, trying to get a feel for their arrangement, but he is working in the dark and accidentally runs straight into one. It rocks back and forth, striking another carcass that hangs near the lighted aisle and it ever so slightly swings into view. From his vantage point on the other side, Eddie sees the movement and fires two shots. James ducks the moment he realizes his blunder has given his position away, though the sound of the bullets tearing flesh seems disturbingly close as Eddie's shots sail overhead and tear through the carcass behind him.

However, Eddie is still aiming for the head and his shots are high and the carcass behind James has not been hung properly. Two small bones are supporting the entire weight of the cow. The bullets shatter the two bones and now only skin and fat hold the body up. James moves back the way he came and once again, reveals his true cunning. Overburdened by the weight of the carcass, the flesh under the hook tears, making the body drop off of the meat hook and it land on the floor with a thud. James lets out a carefully timed scream.

Eddie, partially deafened by the sound of his own gun, cannot distinguish between a human body hitting the ground and a bovine corpse falling off a meat hook. His laughter echoes out of the darkness.

"What's the matter James? Did I get ya?"

James crouches and says nothing. Eddie giggles, and makes his fatal mistake.

He emerges from his side and steps into the aisle, mist swirling around him. "I told ya, James. Now ya ended up just like the guy in the apartment. Shot dead in a fridge!" Eddie laughs again, steam rising from his mouth, as he walks over to James's side and peers into the dark, looking for the body. James moves out from the meat and into the aisle. With his deafness, Eddie cannot hear James's footsteps as he creeps up behind him.

James points the gun at the back of Eddie's head. Eddie somehow senses James's presence at the last second and he turns to face him, though it is too late. James is so close he can see the reflection of the gun's muzzle in Eddie's eyes. There is no way of knowing what Eddie would have done next because James, once again acting as Death's instrument, is already squeezing the trigger. The discharge of the pistol is not as loud as the revolver's, but it is still worthy of its task. It is followed by a tiny ping as the spent cartridge lands on the floor.

A thinner man would have fallen backwards, carried by the weight and momentum of his head. But Eddie's enormous paunch pulls him forward. He drops to his knees. The bullet struck just above his nose and the proximity leaves a powder burn. Eddie's face did not have time to respond to the sight of the gun and his wicked grin will be fixed upon his visage for all eternity. But his eyes are frozen in terror at the sight of that black barrel doing unto him what he himself has done to so many others. He stays on knees only long enough for all this to register with James and then he falls forward, his forehead cracking on the floor and a dark spot appears on his baseball cap.

James stares at the body as blood begins to run out from the head and pool on the floor. Steam rises off of it and merges with the coolant mist that permeates the air.

"My, god. I killed him…" he whispers after a moment, "…I killed another human being…Eddie, I'm sorry...I'm so sorry it had to end this way." James holsters the gun with a trembling hand.

Empty words, James.

His hand does not tremble from remorse at having killed a fellow man. Not in the least. It trembles because of the first thought he had at seeing Eddie's body and blood on the floor:

_You were right Eddie, "Killin' a person ain't no big deal. You just put the gun to their head…Pow!"_

He forces his thoughts back to Mary and to Lakeview Hotel; _I must be on the docks somewhere_. Even with thoughts of boats and hotel rooms firmly in mind, he goes through the double doors with shivers that are not caused by the cold.

Many souls heed the Call of Silent Hill in the hopes that it holds the answers to their troubles. Some of Them find the Path to Redemption, but when finally faced with the truth, They choose to deny it and instead embrace their crimes. To Them, the town becomes a place of fantasies fulfilled. But They quickly forget that violence begets violence, and it is not long before one of Their fantasies fights back and claims Their miserable life.

Such a one was Eddie Dombrowski.


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Escaping the Labyrinth has banished the night and he finds himself once again surrounded by the thick, grey mist of Silent Hill on what would have otherwise been a beautiful morning. He has been traveling in the dark for so long however that, even with the mist clouding the sun, it takes his eyes several minutes to adjust to the light. When they finally do, he looks around to find himself on the docks, evidenced by the cement in front of him quickly giving way to a wooden overhang and the waters of Toluca Lake reflecting the grey around it. There is no longer a look or even a feel of ruin around him. The wood is in good condition and the railing along the edge has no sign of rust. The doors behind him are strong and there is no sign of corrosion or abuse. This area is the cargo loading and unloading section of the dock and there are several unmarked crates and barrels stacked to his left. They have a layer of dust that has been moistened into dirt by the fog covering them, but there is no other indication of neglect.

He goes to his right, this being the industrial section of the docks he is unlikely to find a boat to the hotel here. He passes a sign that says "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" in black letters and then another reads "PASSENGER DOCK" and points to a set of metal stairs. Next to them is a small building that was probably some sort of ticket stand. A security gate has been pulled over the front and a CLOSED sign has been put out. He notes that this building too, is not in a state of decay. Ever since he awoke in the garden in Brookhaven it seems he has been in a world that is rotting away and he has become so accustomed to it that the building's normality seems almost alien to him now. Out of curiosity he tries opening the side door, but it is locked. With nothing else of interest there, he descends the stairs and finds himself on a small wooden pier. It rocks slightly as he initially puts his weight on it, but it soon stabilizes. Though there are places to dock the boats on the pier, none seem to be there. However, he does not despair yet; the pier is long and mist obscures most of it.

He is about to continue down the pier when something breaks through the gloom. A single orb of white light hovers high in the air some distance away from the pier. The light itself is not particularly brilliant, but amongst the grey of the town, it stands out like a beacon in the night. Given its direction, there is only one place it could be coming from. Lakeview Hotel is built on the shore almost directly opposite the pier and on foggy days there would always be a light put out to prevent boats from crashing into the hotel's small dock.

True excitement is difficult for him at this point, but the dampness in his shoes and the aches in his joints grow faint as he stares at the light. He has come so far and his goal seems almost at hand. There were doubts at the back of his mind about whether the hotel was their "special place"; after all, he had thought the same of Rosewater Park. But the light tells him that there are answers, or at the very least, clues waiting for him there.

The pier seems devoid of boats in the beginning and as he nears the end he begins to worry that swimming may be his only option. But after escaping the Labyrinth and killing Eddie, I must concede he deserves better than that. So, as the mist parts for him at the end of the pier, he finds a lone boat moored to the dock. It is small and wooden with two thick oars. He had hoped for something motorized, but he thinks he can manage the oars. He and Mary have gone kayaking on the lake before and they had easily covered the distance between the dock and the hotel several times over. A rowboat is far more cumbersome than a kayak and he is much more tired now than he was then, but he only need travel one way and he will not allow himself to stop at this point.

He carefully steps into the boat and tries to keep his balance as it rocks back and forth. For a split second, he fears falling down and turning the boat over, as his muscles do not seem to possess the strength to keep him upright. But the waters of the lake are placid and his weight does not make the boat draw enough water to make capsizing a real risk. He is able to steady it after some careful shifting and he unties the rope, locks the oars in place, and pushes off.

It takes him a few minutes to get the hang of moving the boat. He more or less remembers how to steer with the oars, but finding the right position and posture for his body takes some time. He finally manages to seat himself properly and begins to row in earnest.

The only sounds around him are the splashing of the oars in the water and his thoughts begin to drift away once again, but there is no place they really settle. He wants to ignore the events of the last few hours, though his encounter with Eddie intrudes itself several times. His lack of remorse is easily rationalized as self defense, and he instead is drawn more to Eddie's taunts, _"This town called you too"; he was right, I _did _get a letter. Why was I called though? What about the others?_ He frowns, _emotional trauma I suppose. Eddie was teased, I haven't gotten over Mary, Angela lost most of her family…_he stops and looks at the water. Thinking about Angela has reminded him of the knife tucked in his belt. There had not been a good place to get rid of it in the Labyrinth but here on the lake…_Angela shouldn't be able to fish a knife out of thirty feet of water_, he thinks as he pulls it out and removes the newspaper from around it. He looks at the blood that encrusts the blade, thinking of all this knife has done and what it could do. He shakes his head. _Another legend of the lake_, he thinks as he drops the knife and watches it sink below the surface of the water to begin its journey to the bottom. After it disappears from view, he waits only for a moment before taking up the oars again and paddling to the waiting light.

The light draws closer, but because of the mist he is almost at the hotel's dock before he can see its source. It emanates from a replica of a nineteenth century street lamp attached to the dock. He remembers it from his previous visits. He had always thought it looked a little ridiculous during the day, seeming out of place with the rest of the hotel. But during the night when it was the only light out on the lake, it did seem to have an inviting presence that conjured in him the image of old innkeeper awaiting the arrival of his favorite guests.

There is something different about the light today. It is white now instead of a soft yellow, perhaps because the white penetrates the fog better. But the black iron frame that surrounds it makes for a more ominous appearance: a horned sentinel who, though expecting James's arrival and instructed to let him pass, silently thinks it would have been better if James had never arrived at all.

He rows up to the dock and throws the rope around one of the moorings. He has little concern for the boat drifting and the knot is done emphasizing speed rather than quality. He hops off of the boat when he is finished and walks up a short flight of stone steps as the iron-framed light watches him from behind. At the top of the steps, the mist has thinned enough for him to see the front of the hotel.

It was built to resemble a large, three-story house; the entrance consists of a set of double doors inside a red-carpeted porch with a slanted roof that is just large enough to accommodate three guests with extra large suitcases. The exterior is mainly wood that has been painted white with mahogany trim around the doorways and windows. The roof is flat and the upper floors have small balconies.

_I'll be damned,_ he thinks as he ascends another set of steps,_ the place hasn't changed a bit_.

The front lawn is green and lush, even in the fog. There are stone fountains to his left and right and the lawn continues in both directions. If his memory is correct, there are gardens and benches on either side that guests could stroll through. He takes another moment to look at the hotel again, bringing back memories of better times with Mary. But he does not dwell on them for long.

He walks up the porch steps and opens the large oak doors. The inside is dim and he turns the flashlight back on. He finds himself in a hallway running left and right. The walls have been painted a light blue and are decorated with various landscape paintings. The carpet is burgundy and has an Indian design on it that is meant to depict a flower. He frowns briefly, wondering why he is not in the lobby, but then realizes that despite its outward appearance, he was looking at the back of the hotel when he came up from the dock. On the wall to his left are a floor by floor roster and a map of the hotel.

Something there makes his heart race. On the map of the third floor, Room 312 has been circle with a red pen. Next to it, in unmistakable delicate cursive is written:

_Waiting for you!_

He quickly takes the map down from the wall, folds it, and tucks it away. He runs down the hall and enters the stairway. The décor of the stairway is much the same as the hall, but he pays this little mind. He races up to the third floor and…finds it blocked.

A thick security gate has been pulled across the entrance. It is latched into the wall and does not move when he tugs it.

"Damn." He mutters, not having the energy to muster anything other than slight disappointment. A brief examination of the gate reveals a keyhole next to the wall. He sits down on the stairs and takes out the map.

He begins to look for a place where he might find a key, but his eyes are drawn to the restaurant on the first floor. He has not had anything to eat since the protein bar at the Historical Society nor has he had water or rest since then either. Climbing ladders and fighting monsters in the Labyrinth has drained his reserves. He has been functioning off of adrenaline since his last encounter with Angela and that thing she called Daddy. Adrenaline can take him far, through a room of full of condemned men, away from a hooded executioner, past a psychopath in a freezer, and across a lake in a rowboat. But it cannot hold out forever and eventually, if he cannot provide more conventional means of energy, his body will shut down.

While he does not expect to be able to sit down and order a proper meal in the restaurant, the kitchen will probably have something edible. After some food and water, he reasons, he can probably rest in one of the booths. Part of him briefly tries to convince the other that finding Mary is the priority, but his focus always drifts away from the map and onto the emptiness in his stomach, the dryness of his mouth, and the heaviness of his eyelids.

He puts the map away and trudges down the stairs. The restaurant is located at the end of the hall to the right of the back entrance and, with his weakened pace, the journey seems almost endless. The sign on the door says "LAKESHORE RESTAURANT" and swings open easily.

He and Mary have dined at Lakeshore many times and the restaurant, much like the hotel, has changed very little in three years. Tables with white linen cloths fill the room to his left, with four booths on the end. Off to his right is a lounge area containing several cushioned benches and a piano. A door with an "Employees Only" sign marks the entrance to the kitchen. It is fitted to swing both way and it pushes open easily.

The kitchen seems unusually small. It could not contain more than one or two short-order cooks. There is a small stove, two sinks, a refrigerator, two cutting boards, and a washing station. He is puzzled at first; the kitchen does not seem large enough to serve the restaurant. But on the wall next to the refrigerator is a very large, square metal plate with a small handle. Pulling it up, he finds a large insulated dumbwaiter big enough to transfer at least eight or nine entrée plates. He feels some disappointment; this is not the main kitchen. Still, he is not looking for an extravagant meal and he has not yet searched the cabinets or the refrigerator.

He turns his attention to the refrigerator first. It gives off a steady hum, and it still produces cool air when he opens it. It is reasonably stocked, though not everything is edible. A garden salad has turned to slime despite the plastic wrapping over the bowl. Another bowl of something that appears to be some kind of batter now has mold growing on its surface. A pack of hard boiled eggs exude a sulfur smell. But a vacuum-sealed package of smoked salmon shows promise and the milk carton is unopened and has yet to expire. A quick search of the cabinets reveals nothing of interest; the three loaves of bread are all moldy, the cracker box is empty and the rest of the contents are all spices, flour, and cooking oils.

He washes himself at the sink and finds clean plates and glasses below it. He takes the salmon and the milk out of the refrigerator. He opens the seal on the fish and puts it on a plate. He feels greedy taking the entire packet, but it is likely to go to waste otherwise and the way his stomach currently feels, he does not think he will have any trouble finishing it. He pours some of the milk into a tall glass and puts the rest back into the refrigerator.

A drawer next to the sink holds silverware and he removes a knife and fork. He takes his meal back out into the restaurant and places it on one of the tables. The wall opposite the restaurant entrance contains mostly glass doors and on a clear day it offered a pleasant view of the lake and patio seating, though there is nothing out there now except mist, and the temperature has created condensation on the glass inside, further obscuring the view. But he did not come for the scenery.

He has finished a third of the salmon and half the glass of milk when he thinks he hears movement behind him. The radio is quiet and his turn is cautious but casual. He sees nothing but the piano and the door. He turns back to his food, but he hears the noise again. He puts the knife and fork down and gets out of the chair. He thinks he can see the shadows behind the piano flicker and his hand goes to the gun.

Suddenly, something slams three piano keys down, making the strings give off an angry scream as a little face jumps up from behind the piano and shouts "HA!"

His hand freezes and relaxes as he realizes the face belongs to Laura. If he had more energy, he would be angry, but instead relief floods through him when he realizes that no further exertion on his part is required.

Laura smiles impishly at him, "Did I scare you?"

"Yeah," he says, sitting back down and resuming his meal, "you did."

Laura begins pushing piano keys as he eats. She is clearly trying to play a tune but she cannot put the keys together fast enough. Eventually she gives up and sits up on the piano, dangling her legs.

"Mary said she used to play the piano. Is that true?"

Her question makes him pause. _How does she know that?_ "Yes," he answers, "She did play a lot when we were dating. How did—"

Laura cuts him off though, "Was she any good?"

This question makes him chuckle. "No, actually, she wasn't; she could never keep a steady rhythm. She was fun to watch though." Indeed he has spent a lot of time listening to her play.

"How could someone be fun to watch?"

"She used to imitate the movements of famous piano players when she was playing." He chuckles again. "And there was something cute about the way she scrunched up her face when she was trying to read the music sheets." He has not thought about her piano playing in a long time. She had a piano in her first apartment; she had said the previous occupant had left it there when they moved out. He used to sit and watch her play frequently whenever the weather was bad.

"Why did she stop doing it?"

He takes another bite of salmon before answering. "When we moved in together she didn't really want to get a new piano and she said moving the old one would be too expensive. But I think she just knew she wasn't very good."

Laura walks away from the piano and over to James's table. She sits on the chair opposite James and looks at him.

"What're you eating?"

"Fish. Do you want some?"

She makes a face. "No, I'm not hungry."

There is a long pause as he eats his salmon and finishes his milk.

"James, have you found Mary yet?" She asks suddenly.

"No," he says, swallowing a bite of fish, "is that why you're here?"

"Yeah, but I haven't found her either."

He glances down at his plate. "You believe she's here too, huh?"

"Yeah, she said so in her letter."

I hate little girls in pink dresses.

He drops his fork. "What letter?"

Laura takes a folded piece of paper out of a pocket in her dress, "Wanna read it?"

"Yes." He holds his hand out.

She hesitates, "You have to promise you won't tell Rachel."

Never mind, there is no hatred in death anyway.

"Rachel?" The name is familiar to him, but he cannot place it.

"She was our nurse." She lowers her voice, "I took it from her locker."

A few things click into place for him. "You and Mary were in the hospital together?"

"Uh-huh, when we were getting treatments."

"Okay, I promise I won't tell her." She hands him the letter and he takes it.

It is written in pink ink with Mary's delicate cursive:

"_My dearest Laura, I'm leaving this_

_letter with Rachel to give to you_

_after I'm gone._

_I'm far away now._

_In that quiet, beautiful place._

_Please forgive me for not saying_

_goodbye before I left._

_And Laura, about James..._

_I know you hate him because you_

_think he isn't nice to me, but please_

_give him a chance._

_It's true he may be a little surly_

_sometimes, and he doesn't laugh_

_much. But underneath he's really_

_a sweet person. You know he_

_brings me flowers twice a week._

_And a card on my birthday,_

_our anniversary, and Christmas_

_(he knows I hate Valentine's Day)_

_Those things might seem a little_

_silly to you now but someday_

_you'll understand._

_Laura..._

_I love you like my very own_

_daughter. If things had worked out_

_differently, I was hoping to_

_adopt you._

_Your friend forever,_

_Mary_

_P.S. Happy 8th birthday!_

Emotions well up in him as he reads and they almost overwhelm him, until he reaches the post-script and his riddle-solving mind finds another clue.

Wretched outsiders.

"Laura?" he asks.

Laura has moved away from the table and stands next to one of the glass doors drawing something in the moisture with her fingers. "Yeah?"

"How old are you?"

She is more concerned with her drawing at the moment and hesitates before answering, "Uh, I turned eight last week."

Wretched, wretched outsiders.

The urge to shout and call her a liar again rises, but his rational mind prevails and he simply stands there, thinking. _Maybe Mary didn't die three years ago; she wasn't…_and then he stops himself again as he realizes he suddenly cannot recall precisely how long Mary was ill. _It had to be for at least six months, but…_

"Laura, is this 'that quiet, beautiful place'?

"Yeah, me and Mary talked a lot about Silent Hill. She even showed me all her pictures. She said she wanted to come back here, so when the nurse told me she was gone and I read the letter I just figured…wait." She stops and puts her hand in her dress pocket, "If you read the other letter, the one Mary…"

Wretched, wretched, _wretched_ outsiders. But all is not lost…

She pulls her hand out and her brow creases again. "No! I lost it!"

"Laura—" he starts.

"No, no, don't worry I'll find it." She races out of the room.

"Laura, wait!" He calls after her, though he knows it is no use. She has not listened to him before, and despite having some nourishment now, he is still too exhausted to chase after her.

He turns back to the letter. _Laura didn't get mailed this letter…I wonder if the handwriting…_He takes out his own letter from Mary and unfolds it. _His_ letter is of Silent Hill however, and it cannot exist alongside the outsider's letter. He looks down to compare the two but the paper is blank.

_What the hell?_

He has been given many clues in a short amount of time, but his brain is too sluggish to make sense of all of them. He puts the letter and the blank paper aside, finishes the rest of the salmon and lies down at one of the booths. The cushioning itself is comfortable, but the dimensions of the booth require him to curl and contort before he finds a position that is reasonably relaxing. _I just need a little rest, and then I can figure this all out_. He lays there and waits as sleep slowly overtakes him.

I may not be able to deceive him much longer. He has enough information to start making guesses. But I do not fear. Firstly, there is no fear in death, only silence and rest. Secondly, his rational mind, being a thing of reason, is not yet prepared to accept that the solution to this puzzle is something occult in nature. Thirdly, I have been here before. James is not the first one of Them to come this far; indeed others have gotten further. I have seen Them come right to the brink of Redemption, stare it in the face, but in the end, turn away from it, not willing to pay its price and cross the threshold. So, I do not fear...I think…


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

He awakes with a start. He knows he was having another nightmare, but unlike the others, his memory rejects it and the images of eyes, blood, and bodies thankfully fade away like objects in the mist.

He feels more alert now, though not completely refreshed. He could not have slept for very long as the light outside seems unchanged. He gets out of the restaurant booth and stretches. His joints are stiff from having been locked in one position for so long, but they quickly loosen. His muscles are sore, but it is the soreness that always follows strenuous exercise and he knows they will perform their functions adequately.

Laura is not in the restaurant and he finds no sign of her having returned, though the finger drawing of the cat on the window remains. I have no way of knowing if she has found her letter or not, but if she has, she did not return to James. He pulls out the map and looks at it again. He decides that, if he is looking for a key in a hotel, the best place to start is with Reception. He puts the map away; he has no difficulty in remembering how to get to the lobby.

Having recovered some of his strength, I feel it is time to test it once again. As he opens the door to the hallway and turns his flashlight back on, he hears the radio hiss and pop. The last mannequin he saw was in the parking lot of the Historical Society and he had killed it almost immediately. Since then it has been nothing but spitters, so he has forgotten how fast they can move on their plastic legs.

The lighting is dim but he can see two. One stands motionless far back from the flashlight, nothing more than a dim silhouette in the hall. The other, however, is charging him, a writhing mass of leg and vein. He swears and tries to duck back into the restaurant. But the mannequin sticks a foot through the door before he can close it. It then kicks the door with one of the upper legs. The kick is strong and James knows he has no hope of closing the door. He quickly backs away from it and grabs a chair with one hand while the other reaches for the gun. The mannequin bashes the door open and races towards him. He throws the chair in front of it and grabs another as he pulls the gun free. The mannequin sidesteps the first chair and continues to rush him. He throws the second chair, but the mannequin swats it aside. Though the action is quick, the slight delay as the mannequin turns its upper legs back towards is enough for James to achieve his goal. He switches the safety off and shoots the mannequin four times. He has seen them go down in three shots, but he is angry at himself for assuming the hotel was safe _and_ he does not want to take the risk of this mannequin reviving while he is dealing with the second one outside.

The mannequin twitches and bleeds on the ground. Then it lays still. The radio does not die out, but the staccato popping sound is fainter. He clicks the flashlight off and goes to the door. He looks out into the hallway. The mannequin has moved from its previous position and the dim light makes it difficult for him to locate it again.

He finally sees the outline of its upper legs a little ways to the left side of the hall. He can see them move slightly, rubbing against each other for reasons he cannot fathom. Perhaps because the flashlight is off, the creature makes no movements towards James, which is just as well for him.

He points the gun down the hall and fires three times. He hears the mannequin shriek twice as its legs fall below into the shadows. He clicks his light on and advances, gun at the ready. The mannequin lies on the floor, trying to get up. Only two of his bullets hit, in the area where the two pairs of legs intersect, but it seems to have crippled the creature. It appears incapable of movement aside from the bending of its knees. As he gets closer, the creature's movements slow and eventually stop. But the radio is not silent.

Indeed, it has not even faded and he whirls around looking for another mannequin. But he sees nothing in either direction. He advances carefully but suddenly trips over the mannequin's leg and lands on his stomach. At first, he curses his own clumsiness, but then suddenly realizes something is wrong. The mannequin's leg had _not_ been in front of him before.

_It's still alive_. He is about to roll away when he feels the mannequin's leg pin his own. It cannot rise off of the ground, but it is able drag itself on the carpet by bending its knees and pulling with its heels. The mannequin is still strong and he cannot free his leg, preventing him from rolling over and, with the gun in his right hand, getting a clear shot. He puts the gun in his left hand, but the creature has dragged its other legs over to him and one kicks him in the shoulder, making him drop the gun.

The blow to his shoulder hurts, and he suddenly realizes that if the mannequin can reach his shoulder, then it can also reach his head. He reaches for the gun again with his left hand. The mannequin kicks him in the shoulder once more and then knocks the gun away. But, before it can retract its leg, his right arm shoots out and grabs it by the foot. It struggles against him, flailing the leg, but he holds tight. He feels it begin to shift its weight to get more leverage. It kicks again with more force, but he lets go the instant before the leg extends. The leg goes out further than the mannequin intended, pulling its body out of position and loosening its hold on James's leg. He pulls his leg free, rolls to his right and stands up.

He backs away from the mannequin. It drags itself over to the gun, hoping to keep James from regaining it. But he has no need of a firearm now. He pulls the baton from its pouch and extends it. The mannequin seems intent on holding its ground but, given its injuries, it has no defense against the baton. With two quick swings he breaks both its front legs. Another two swings and the creature cries out and lays still. This time, the radio is silent.

He exhales a sigh of relief, retrieves the gun, collapses the baton, and begins to reload the gun. _Damn, _he thinks as he squeezes bullets into the magazine,_ can't believe I got out of that one alive_. Strangely, he finds himself once again thinking of Eddie's words echoing in mists of the refrigerator room, "_You and me are the same, buddy. We're not like other people._" _You were right Eddie; there is something different about us_. He recalls his first encounter with the spitter in the incomplete underpass. He had been terrified by the creature, and yet…_I still managed to grab a weapon and kill that thing. Have I…?_ But, as They all too often do, he shakes his head and ends that line of thinking. He finishes reloading and, though the radio is silent, checks the rest of the hall, leaving the bleeding corpse behind.

There are two doors to the lobby in the hall; each one comes out along side a grand staircase in the lobby that leads to the second floor. He selects the one to the left of the stairway, reasoning that if there are any monsters in the lobby or in Reception they will only be able to come at him from one side.

He pushes open the mahogany doors and steps in carefully. The radio is silent, and he moves into the lobby. When he first entered the hotel, his mind had been too occupied to notice the smell of the place, but now he takes the time to inhale the aroma. He would describe it as pine, though it is not as sharp as a real pine would smell. The lobby carpeting is the same Indian design as the hallway though the pattern is on a much larger scale in order to match the size of the room. Large couches and cushioned chairs line the walls for guests to sit at while waiting for the porters or even just to lounge while enjoying the centerpiece of the lobby, which stands just in front of the grand staircase.

It is a large antique clock, though it is not used to keep time anymore. Attached to the front of the clock is a music box with a table of figurines that rotate and move when the box plays. The concierge would turn it on from time to time and the guests could sit in the lobby, relax and enjoy the music and watch the figurines move. James cannot remember specifics about the music, except that, being an antique music box, the music was generated by a series of chimes that could not perform anything complex, though he does recall that there was a kind of beauty in its simplicity. Mary liked to come down here sometimes and watch the figurines move in their mechanically primitive dance.

He shakes his head. He is not here to reminisce. He moves past the music box, noting in passing that some of the figurines are missing. The reception desk is located on the other side of the room. It consists of a large window in the wall with gold-painted trim. The desk itself has been painted a very dark shade of burgundy. On the wall behind the desk is an array of cubbyholes, each marked with a room number. Unsurprisingly, the desk is unmanned and the summons bell is broken. He moves through the wooden "Employees Only" door to the right of the desk. There is another door to the supervisor's office in front of him and the other side of the reception desk is on his left.

The lower part of the desk contains a phone, several pens, a piece of paper with the hotel's letterhead and nothing else. He searches the drawers and cabinet below the desk for any master key, but finds nothing. He is about to turn to search the cubby holes when he sees there is writing on the paper:

_Mr, Sunderland_

_The videotape you accidentally left with us is being kept in the office_

_on the first floor. We were glad to be of assistance and hope to see _

_you again._

"Hmm." He says aloud, _I forgot about the tape…first things first though_. He starts searching the cubbyholes. He finds nothing in them until he gets to 312. He finds no key, but there is wooden figurine.

It is a mermaid with her tail curled up. Her blond hair flows over her shoulders, a small gold circlet sits on her head and her hands are pressed together in prayer. The artist paid exquisite detail to the paint and carving; every silvery blue scale on her tail sparkles in the flashlight and the texture of her hair feels as though the artist whittled each strand individually. The shape of her eyebrows and the blue coloring of her irises give her face a sweet, but slightly melancholy expression.

He picks up the figurine and walks back over to the music box. There are three empty, circular grooves on the table, each with a small round hole in its center. He pushes a button on the side of the clock to make it play. The table rotates and he hears chimes being struck, but it seems as though they are being played out of order and what results is more noise rather than music. He frowns and looks down at each of the grooves and then he notices engravings next to each of them. The first one on the left reads "_Beauty, both a blessing and a curse thou be_." The center groove reads "_'Twas shameful greed did stain her shoe with blood._" And the one on the right finishes, "_Even so, I still want to believe she was happy._" He looks at the bottom of his mermaid figurine and sees a little round peg. He lines it up with the hole on the leftmost groove and pushes it down. It fits perfectly. He is about to play the music box again when he notices more writing engraved on the table. What catches his attention, however, is the fact that the writing is in Mary's cursive:

_Darling, hurry and put this puzzle straight,_

_So you can come to the place where I wait._

_For another princess, there's a small twist,_

_Hidden away in a suitcase of mist._

_I cannot say much more, _

_But try the second floor…_

Tempered excitement comes to him. _This_ is the kind of puzzle Mary would make for him. Fairytale figures, a little rhyme indicating the location of the next clue, and a final riddle to put together once he has all the pieces. _Classic Mary._

He takes out the map. He has several options. He could follow the poem and go to the second floor. But once there, he is not certain where to find the "suitcase of mist." There is also the office on the first floor that holds the videotape. He frowns. His map of the hotel is intended for guests and several sections of the hotel are noted as being "Employees Only" and nothing more. He cannot tell if the memo at reception referred to the supervisor's office, which he has yet to check, or another office. He decides that if the tape is not in the reception supervisor's office he will go to the second floor. The hotel is not safe and it would be better to leave the tape until later. _Besides, _he smiles to himself,_ maybe the tape's part of the next clue. I wouldn't want to spoil Mary's puzzle by getting ahead of her._

The supervisor's office reveals quite literally nothing. It appears to have been cleared out sometime ago and only a desk, file cabinet, chair, and empty wastepaper basket remain. He exits back to the lobby and goes back over to the music box.

He spends several minutes there committing the poem to memory before he leaves.

He walks up the grand staircase to the second floor. At first he is unsure of where to go; the map gives him two immediate possibilities. Visitors would sometimes leave suitcases in the cloak room and he could try there. However, most baggage in the hotel would be kept by the guests in their rooms, and to get into the rooms he will need keys. The front desk did not have any room keys, but he reasons either the housekeeping or maintenance staff would have keys to the rooms. He heads to his left; there is a maintenance room next to the guest elevator and he decides it would be better to get the keys now.

He passes through a set of doors. The hallway is decorated the same as the first floor, though the paintings seem to be spaced out more evenly. There is a guest elevator just to his left and a small table with a decorative bouquet of flowers. The smell of lilac touches his nostrils and he realizes the bouquet is real. It stops him for a moment. The hotel, like the rest of the town, appears abandoned, but there is nonetheless a set of fresh flowers sitting on the table. He scratches his head; again pieces are coming to him and his rational mind files them away, waiting for an opportune time to put them together.

He moves past the guest elevator and puts his hand on the knob on the "Employees only" door. He turns it, but is greeted by the dull click of a lock. "Damn." He mutters. _Looks like it's the cloak room after all_.

He goes back through the set of doors and past the grand staircase. He goes through another set of doors. Directly to his right is the stairwell. There is another set of doors down the short hallway in front of him. There is also a branching hallway on his left which has doors to a reading room, a lounge, and the cloak room. He takes the left hall and the cloak room is the first door. The carpeting inside is just plain burgundy and the walls are a dark brown with lighter-colored stripes. Two-thirds of the room is behind a mahogany desk. The walls beyond the desk are lined with coat racks, though they all appear to be empty at the moment. He climbs over the desk and finds the lower part of the walls contain shelves with a few suitcases.

His hopes rise but begin to fall as he opens each suitcase only to find it empty. When he has gone through them all, he tosses the last one in disgust. The suitcase he is looking for is not here. He could try the reading room and the lounge, but if he comes up dry there, he will only have the rooms left and he has no keys. It occurs to him though, that he could break into the rooms using the baton or the gun. But using the baton would take time and energy; he remembers most of the rooms having a dead bolt in addition to the door lock. As for the gun, with twenty rooms on the floor and needing an absolute minimum of two bullets for each door, that is far too many bullets for him to spare.

Before he completely resigns himself however, he sees a glint in a cardboard box marked "Lost and Found" that sits below the desk. He pulls it out. The box is empty except for a small key on a ring with a plastic chip marked with the number 204. _Maybe I won't have to break into _all_ of the rooms_, he smiles to himself as he pockets the key.

No longer believing there is such a thing as coincidence in Silent Hill, he ignores the reading room and lounge and instead finds Room 204 on the map. It is located in the west wing of the hotel, the same as the cloak room. He goes back into the short hall with the stairwell and takes the doors on his left.

He is greeted with both a pleasant painting of one of the hotel's flower gardens on the wall in front of him and an unpleasant hiss of the radio in his pocket. He draws the gun while silently cursing himself for not having done so before going through the doors. Fortunately, for him, the first mannequin does not notice him until after he has it drawn and it goes down quickly. The second mannequin is more cautious, not wanting to alert James to the presence of the third.

He advances slowly, holding the gun out, listening for the sound of footsteps on the carpet. The mannequin moves silently, though not undetected. The vibrations are faint, but James senses are heightened from the rush of fresh adrenaline and he can feel them despite the soft carpeting and his thick soles. Perhaps sensing it has been detected, the mannequin increases its pace. He holds the gun out, waiting for the creature to appear into the light. But the mannequin surprises him. Instead of charging straight towards him as he expected, it runs past him down the hall, veins flashing in the light, and is out of sight before he can re-aim the gun. _What the hell?_ He turns and points the gun down the hall. It is then that the third mannequin begins to slowly move towards him in the darkness.

James, oblivious, focuses his attention down the corridor where the second mannequin disappeared. The second mannequin waits at the end of the hall until some unspoken signal passes between the two monsters and it charges down the hall, back towards James, this time trying to make as much noise as possible. The third mannequin also begins to charge, the sound of its footsteps masked by the other mannequin. Had he never detected the third mannequin, this strategy would have defeated him; while he aimed for the second, the third would have surprised him from behind and beaten that rational brain of his into an irrational, bloody pulp. Unfortunately for the mannequins, as the third one draws near, James feels the vibrations coming from both directions and he quickly realizes he has been surrounded.

Though he has spotted their trap, James still has precious few seconds before the mannequins overwhelm him anyway. Despite the more immediate threat being the mannequin behind him, James blindly fires twice down the hall in the hopes that he might get lucky with the second mannequin. He steps to the side as the third mannequin swipes at him from behind. He turns and brings the gun up, but is forced to move before he can fire as the mannequin swings at him again. He had managed to survive a similar situation with the nurses in the Historical Society's parking lot, but he had more room to move and he was facing slower opponents. He takes a step back and fires the gun, hitting the mannequin in the midsection. But there is a cost as he feels the carpet move behind him as the second mannequin is upon him. He ducks the kick aimed at the back of his head, but another catches him between the shoulder blades, knocking him forward. He manages to stay on his feet, until the mannequin uses one of its lower legs to kick him in his right hamstring.

He falls to the ground. He keeps the barrel of the gun pointed away from him, but he does not get his finger off of the trigger before landing and the gun discharges. The bullet hits the floor not far from him. Though the third mannequin was not hit, it takes a step back, not realizing the blast was unintended. James rolls to his left and tries to come up into a crouch, but his hamstring is numb and the best he can manage is a half sit-up. He points the gun at the second mannequin, which has followed him in his roll, and shoots it twice; once in the midsection and once in its knee. The bullets do not kill the mannequin, but it is crippled and cannot stand.

The fight seems to slow down as all three combatants are wounded. The third mannequin is still on its feet, though the one bullet in its midsection has slowed it down some and it now must carry most of its weight on its left leg. It shifts around to face him. He tries to crabwalk backwards, but his hamstring refuses to move and he is only able to drag himself a little ways before the mannequin is on him. It tries to stomp him with its right leg, but he drops the gun and grabs its foot before it can bring it down. The mannequin seems to have difficulty rotating its hips and can only use the strength in its one leg to shake him off. He grips it tightly for a few seconds as it struggles against him. Then, using his body as an anchor, he pulls down hard on the leg, pinning it to the floor. Were the mannequin not injured, a simple shift its weight onto the right leg would allow it to bring the left around to kick him in the face. But its damaged hips cannot support the shift in weight; the sound of tearing plastic erupts from the hip and black blood begins to ooze out as the mannequin topples to the side.

He picks the gun up and slides up to the wall. Using the wall as a brace, he sits up enough to fire his last two bullets, one in each mannequin. They both drop flat on the floor, but neither one immediately dies. Instead, they lie there bleeding, and screeching. The second mannequin tries to drag itself over to James, but its movements become more and more feeble until it gives up altogether. He breathes a sigh of relief. Though the creatures still struggle and flail their limbs, he can see the pools of blood are growing bigger and he knows that he will be the only one who will ever walk out of this hall.

It is another minute before the mannequins stop moving and the radio becomes silent. By then, some feeling has returned to his hamstring and he gingerly stands up. He had been worried that the mannequin might have permanently damaged it, but as he gets to his feet and more blood begins to flow through the leg, he feels its strength returning, though there will be an ugly bruise. He changes the clip and reloads the empty one.

He looks at the mannequins bodies before moving on and anger wells up in him. The hotel was a quiet, peaceful place. But the presence of these creatures has sullied it. He thinks of the friendly hotel staff that, despite having left long ago, would be forced to carry this body away and clean the blood from the carpet. And maybe more. Perhaps the blood stains the carpet run too deep to clean. Maybe the hotel will have to rip the carpeting out of the entire floor and replace it at great expense. Maybe rumors will spread about why the carpeting is being replaced and some over-vigilant citizen makes a call to the health inspector or perhaps the sheriff. Maybe that will lead to a criminal investigation that effectively shuts down the hotel for a season. But most of all, the last memories he has of Mary before her illness were all associated with this hotel. But now, when he thinks of the hotel, he will not remember smelling pine in the halls, watching the dancing figurines in the lobby, walking in the gardens, eating in the restaurant while looking out at the lake, or spending the nights alone in their room. Instead, his last memories will include the smell of spent cartridges, the hiss of the radio, and the sight of mannequins crumpled on the ground with their black blood seeping into the burgundy carpet. He takes a deep breath, exhales and lets his anger subside.

Room 204 is nearly at the end of the hall and the number is dimly illuminated from the window at the end of the hall, though the heavy, dark red curtains drawn across it let in very little of the meager light outside. He pulls the key out and unlocks the door.

This section of the second floor consists of the economy priced rooms, which are much smaller than the third floor rooms where James is used to staying. There is a dresser, a queen sized bed and a small bathroom. The curtains across the windows here are much thinner, lighting the room a little better, though he keeps the flashlight on. Several open suitcases are strewn about the floor and black and white photographs of the town have been scattered across the bed, but otherwise, there is no sign that the room has been occupied. The duvet on the bed is undisturbed and the towels in the bathroom are unused. Amongst the photographs on the bed is a small, metal suitcase with an internal combination lock.

He picks it up tentatively. It is somewhat heavy though very little of the weight comes from its contents. Something rattles inside as he moves it. _Is this the "suitcase of mist"?_ He wonders. He scratches his head, stymied on how to open it. Breaking it does not seem feasible; the metal is strong and can probably withstand a gun blast; that also rules out the baton and any other physical means; the amount of force required to smash it open would likely destroy its contents. He does not have a combination of any kind. He was able to open the box behind the statue in Rosewater Park by unscrewing the hinges and he turns the suitcase around to have a look. Alas, the designer of this suitcase has thought of such measures because the hinges are welded onto the main body. He considers other options.

The combination is only four digits and, given the circumstances, probably set by Mary, meaning it might have some significance; he can probably find it by trial and error. But as he takes a closer look at the combination dials, he suddenly realizes that instead of numbers, they contain letters. _Okay, it's a word, not a number_. He tries to think of a word Mary might use. He tries her name first. Nothing. Next he tries "love". Nothing again. _I shouldn't guess randomly, Mary _always _leaves a clue._ He goes back over the poem in his mind. The first two lines were clearly referring to finding the figurines. _Then the line about the princess refers to the next figurine. It says there's a "twist". Does it just mean that…wait, wait, wait…"suitcase of mist"_. He looks over the suitcase, but finds nothing that indicates it has anything to do with mist. _Still, she wouldn't use the word mist just to keep the rhyme, there's—oh, of course_…He smiles ruefully to himself…_"mist" has four letters._ He turns the dial and spells the word. There is a click and the suitcase opens. He smiles, _clever Honey, very clever_.

Inside is a key wrapped in white paper and another wooden figurine. This figurine is of an auburn haired woman wearing a magnificent billowing, white gown which she holds in a graceful curtsy. She has one foot daintily extended to reveal a translucent shoe that sparkles in the glow of the flashlight. He pockets the figurine and looks at the key, which is marked "2nd MAINTENANCE". He puts the key away and looks at the paper. On it, another poem is written:

_Oh darling, you must be strong,_

_We'll not be apart for long._

_Don't stop now to think,_

_Or pause for one drink._

_The music shall open the way to the place where we once did sleep_

_Find the last damsel in the place where a goddess doth weep._

He frowns. The fifth line obviously means Room 312, but the sixth…he is unsure. He tries to remember if there are any statues or portraits in the building or the gardens that depict someone crying. He draws blank. _The final couplet can't be the only clue_, he thinks, _the opening, well…I don't see anything. But…"think" and "drink"..._He stops and checks the map. The hotel contains a café, a restaurant, and a bar. He remembers the bar well, he and Mary shared many drinks there, but, more important to him now, is the name of the bar: _Venus Tears…"where a goddess doth weep"_.

He folds the paper and tucks it in his pants pocket.

I can feel his denial begin to waver. He has started to trust Laura's letter rather than his own memory, though he has yet to consciously admit it. That is not a good sign. Soon, he will no longer be able to ignore his rational mind and he _will_ find the answers; the only question is _when_ will he find them? Fortunately, that is a question I do know the answer to.

He will find them when _I_ am ready.


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

_Mary hasn't been dead three years_.

This conclusion comes grudgingly as he leaves room 204. The first clue is the letter to Laura. Attempts to recall specific events in the last three years have been unsuccessful. Three years is a long time, and yet he can find no detailed memories. There is simply nothing but a jumble of days spent sitting at home or at work, staring into nothing. He then tries a more logical approach. _Okay there's a lot of things that happen every year, birthdays, anniversaries, holidays—wait, that's it! _He thinks, _Christmas_. _Where did I spend my first Christmas after Mary died?_ Even if he had become a complete shut-in, he would not be able to ignore the holiday season. Indeed, a widower is most likely to remember the first Christmas spent without his spouse. An event does occur to him. _I was at my cousin's house. She usually makes turkey on Christmas, but she did ham that year. Mary wasn't with me then because Mary usually makes the ham. _He gives a tight smile in triumph. _This letter's wrong. My cousin even said—_he stops as his triumph suddenly evaporates—_she said "It's too bad Mary couldn't be here. But next year, okay?" Damn, it wasn't that year. _He shakes his head. Mary had still been in the hospital that year. He is wrong. He has no recollection of any holidays since the day he got the final call from the hospital. _So,_ he concludes, _the letter's right and I'm wrong_.

And then there are other clues he has overlooked until now. A voice had spoken to him on the radio just outside of the tunnel in the construction yard. At the time, he had assumed it was a random transmission and the incident had since slipped his mind. But, knowing what he does now, he is almost certain the voice that came from the radio belonged to Mary. Then there are the puzzles that have cropped up from around the town. _Who else would make those?_

He is, however, not quite ready to accept that Mary is alive either, at least not as he knew her. Death has been reversed in the town before. He had witnessed Maria's horrific murder with his very own eyes, and yet he found her alive again. _But_ _then_, he thinks, reminding himself of the flawless stomach, _that woman couldn't have been the same Maria_.

He is closer to the answer. He is even allowing for the existence of supernatural phenomena. But for this moment, the solution still eludes him and stopping to think will not help.

Venus Tears is located on the basement level and although it is slightly faster for him to take the stairwell near the cloak room, he walks past it and takes the grand staircase to the lobby instead. There he puts the Cinderella figurine onto the music box. He considers playing the box again, but decides there is no point to it since this puzzle cannot be done until he has found the third figurine.

A large, carpeted set of stairs in the middle of the first floor hallway leads down to the basement hall. He descends these rapidly. Despite being on the basement floor, the hallway is furnished just like the upper floors. An excellent painting of the mountains beyond Toluca Lake sits on the wall in front of the stairs. The painting depicts them in winter and the snowcapped peaks glisten in the light. To his left are two doors leading into the bathrooms. On his right the hallway bends around a corner with a small table adorned with another bouquet of fresh flowers.

He moves towards the corner and draws the gun as he hears the radio hiss and pop. The mannequin leaps out from behind the corner, its upper legs spread wide apart. He easily puts one bullet into it before it lands on him. The mannequins seem to lack vital organs of any sort, so he has always aimed for the larger target of their midsections which usually results in injury to the lower set of legs and indeed that seems to be the case here. But rather than swing at his face on the way down, the upper legs wrap themselves around his head and the weight of the mannequin pulls him down to the floor. He tries to throw it off of him, but the mannequin has wedged his head between its thighs and is squeezing them together in an obscene headlock that he cannot break.

The body covers the flashlight in his breast pocket and his vision goes dark. He can feel the compression of the hard plastic around his head, focused at the hinge of his jaw. The plastic feels surprisingly warm against his cheeks and there is a strange smell in his nostrils. He had expected the plastic of a mannequin to be odorless or, at the very least, have only a very slight oily smell. There is, in fact, an oil smell to the limbs, but there is something else to it too. A slight, fruity perfume scent emanates from the juncture between the legs and the hips. On its own, the smell might be considered pleasant. But combined with the oil of the plastic, it turns his stomach.

He instinctively tries to pull his head away, but the mannequin's grip is strong and his efforts do little other than force him to breathe harder and inhale more and more of that nauseating air. He suddenly realizes that the immediate danger here is not the mannequin's efforts to crush his skull, but rather suffocation from that smell. While he doubts he could actually breathe in a lethal amount, he feels the fumes making him light-headed and, if he does not change his air supply soon, he could pass out, which, with the mannequin atop him, would be a virtual death sentence.

He shoots the mannequin's midsection again, but the creature does not relent. He drops the gun and pulls at the creatures thighs, trying to reduce the pressure on his head, and allow him enough movement to get a breath of fresh air. The tension on his head lessens slightly, but he is still unable to free himself or find clean air. He lifts up with his hips and throws the weight of the mannequin to the side. Its lower legs partially crippled from the gunshot wounds, the mannequin is unable to mount any resistance and its body thumps on the floor next to James. The upper legs of the mannequin, however, maintain their grip and pull James along with them. He ends up on his side, the thighs still have a steel grip on his head, but at least his legs and chest are free.

The mannequin's body no longer blocks the flashlight, and James suddenly finds his face encased in a web of silvery veins and gray plastic. He pulls his knees in and twists his body to the side, trying to get his feet under him. The flashlight casts a shadow on the wall of the struggling opponents that resembles a writhing spider. The mannequin seems intent on not letting him move his head, preventing him from turning just enough to regain his feet. He takes a gamble at this point. Pushing his hips forward into the mannequin, he is able to lift his head out from between the creature's legs and quickly turns all the way onto his stomach. The risk however, is that the mannequin's legs are now locked around the smaller, but softer target of his neck. The mannequin is not in a position to put direct pressure on his carotid arteries, but his wind pipe is easily constricted and a strong enough twitch from the mannequin could snap his neck.

He pulls his feet under him until he is in a squatting position. The mannequin senses his movement and begins to tighten its grip. He puts his hands on the mannequin's legs and quickly thrusts up with his own. Combined with the tension of his hands, the mannequin loses its grip and begins to slide off of his body. It tries to wrap its legs around his torso, but standing upright with his hands free, he has little trouble pushing the creature off. He gives it a kick as it drops to the ground before he pulls the baton out. The mannequin, perhaps in some strange way accepting that it has lost the fight, makes no move as James brings the hard, black metal down on its midsection. The mannequin makes a feminine sigh as its legs collapse and the radio goes silent.

He drops the baton in the pouch and rubs his temples and neck. Both are sore from the mannequin's hold; there is a dull ache in his head, and he can feel a slight scratching sensation in his throat when he swallows. With the radio silent however, there is little else to do but retrieve the gun and move on.

The door to Venus Tears is not far. It is a solid wooden door that appears to have been varnished recently. Above it is a sign with "_Venus Tears_" painted on it in cursive. He grabs the handle of the door and pulls but, as he should have expected, the door is locked from this side. He takes the map back out and frowns. There is no other guest entrance to the bar. The employees section of the hotel is not detailed, but there should be an entrance from the other side.

He considers trying the first floor door to the employees' area, but he remembers the key to the maintenance room on the second floor. _The first floor has to be locked too; Mary wouldn't have given me a key I don't need_. The guest elevator is not working, but with a key to the maintenance room, he will have access to the employee elevator or, better yet, find a master key. He makes his way back up to the second floor as the silence of the hotel begins to mirror the silence of Woodside Apartments.

The door opens with a small creak and he is greeted with the smell of bleach. The maintenance rooms stands out in stark contrast to the rest of the hotel. The walls are a harsh plaster color and the floor is tiled. In one corner sits what looks like a water heater and a series of pipes traveling up and down the ceiling. There is a fuse box on the far wall and three lockers next to it. Assorted mops and brooms lay in the corner on his right. The wall to his left consists of two brass colored elevator doors. The remaining wall space seems to be devoted to service brochures, evacuation plans, sanitation reminders and other assorted employee notices.

A quick check of the lockers finds one filled with assorted cleaning solutions and the other two empty. "Hmm." He pushes the button to call the elevator. But it does not respond. He pushes it again. Nothing. He walks to the doors and tries to pull them apart. To his surprise, after an initial push, they open quite easily. But there is no elevator beyond them; nothing but a dark shaft that smells of oil and dust.

He takes the flashlight out of his pocket and shines it around the shaft. He can see the top of the passage just above him, but he cannot quite make out the bottom. He sees no sign of the elevator; indeed there is no cable running the length of the shaft as far as he can see. However, the designers of the hotel had taken such possibilities into account and he can see steel rungs riveted to the wall, forming a sort of emergency ladder running from floor to floor.

He kneels on the ground to get the flashlight closer to the bottom of the shaft. At the very bottom, he sees the roof of the elevator blocking the basement level entrance. The shiny black elevator cable, along with two large pulleys, lay loosely coiled on top of it. Holding himself steady with one hand on the rung just below him, he edges out over the shaft to take a closer look at the elevator's roof. The elevator would likely have some sort of emergency hatch in the roof that he should be able to access. He finds it slightly off-center of the roof. It is circular and has been partially opened, offering a tantalizing glimpse inside the elevator.

He wants to lower himself a little more so he can shine the light into the elevator itself. He takes his hand off of the first rung and reaches for the second. But it is not there. Having nothing but vacant air to support himself, he feels his weight begin to fall into the elevator shaft. Without thinking, he puts his other hand on the third rung down and he manages to stop himself with a sudden jolt. He briefly thinks he has fallen as he sees light spiraling down the length of the shaft. A clang followed by a very soft thump echoes up the shaft and he realizes that he did not fall, but simply dropped his flashlight. He curses and looks below. When he first sees the light, he gives a sigh of relief. Until he realizes it is emanating from within the elevator itself. _Shit_.

He pulls himself backwards out of the shaft, feeling somehow lighter, and peers down at the flashlight. It is definitely inside the elevator and it outlines something black wedged in the opening of the hatch. He shrugs and thinks, _I was going to go down there anyway_. He secures everything in his jacket and then moves on to his pants and then his waist where he stops in sudden horror as he realizes the source of the clang he heard as he fell and the reason for his lightness while pulling himself out of the shaft. He had not secured the strap on his holster after the encounter with the mannequin, and he had left the top of the baton's nylon pouch open. So, when his hands go to his waist, they find a pouch, but no baton and a holster, but no gun.

_Fuck!_

Indeed.

After securing his other belongings, he scrambles down the rungs in a cold sweat. His worst fears are confirmed when he gets to the bottom. The flashlight has fallen through the partially open hatch into the elevator below. It rests inside a cart of folded bed linen. _Well_, he thinks, _at least it had a soft landing_. The object wedged into the hatch turns out to be the baton. Thinking it solidly held in place, he reaches for it. But, in fact, it is quite loose, and before he can get a solid grip on it, the mere touch of his fingers drops it into the elevator with a clatter. He swears again and looks into the elevator.

The baton has rolled into the right hand corner. Because the flashlight beam is pointing straight up, shining directly into his eyes, it takes him a minute and some squinting to see the gun lying next to it in the bin. He tries to take some comfort in the fact that, as with the flashlight, the soft impact has probably left it undamaged.

The opening of the hatch is not sufficient enough to let him through and an examination of the hatch tells him that the opening was probably caused by damage from the collapsing elevator cable. Unfortunately, this has wrecked the release mechanisms on the hatch, making it impossible for him to widen the opening from this side. He kicks it once in frustration as he feels panic and rage begin rise up in him. But he clenches his fists and takes a few deep breaths of the cold, musty air. _Stay calm, James_, he tells himself, _there has to be a way around this_. He opens the map and squints at it in the bad lighting.

He breathes a little easier after a look at the map. He should be able to access the elevator if he can get to the basement level. He can climb to the elevator doors on the first floor and opening them should not be a problem. From there, he will be in the employee wing of the first floor; he can then take the stairs to the basement level where he can get his weapons from the elevator _and_ the last figurine in the bar.

He puts the map away and climbs up the ladder to the first floor doors. It is slightly tricky getting them to open while hanging on the rungs but he does so and enters the first floor employee hallway.

There is a single functioning ceiling light that gives the hallway a sort of off-white look to it. Being the employee wing, appearances are of less concern and, though it has been well cleaned, the hallway has a much cruder look to it. The paint on the scratched walls is old and mismatched. The left side is painted in a dull-white color; the right-hand side is a rusty brown although it was most likely mahogany when it was first painted. The doors leading in to the guest wing are just to his right and the hallway runs north and south, though the light makes it difficult to tell how far.

A bulletin board is on the wall just to his left. It contains many of the same notices that decorated the walls in the maintenance room, plus a blank duty roster and, most providential, an employee map, showing all the facilities in the employees section. His first thought is whether he should simply make his way to the basement level to regain his lost equipment or if he should first find another weapon. The map does not reveal anything promising in terms of the latter. There is a "Security's Office", but in a hotel like this, it is most likely an administration office, probably housing the master safe, fireproof file cabinets and employee records. He decides against searching for a weapon; which is good as I am not feeling charitable at the moment nor am I required to offer him anything worth his time.

He locates the stairs on the map and begins to take it down off the wall when something catches his eye. The door just up the hall on the left is marked "Office" on the map and he remembers the note from reception. "…_the videotape you accidentally left with us is being kept in the office on the first floor."_

He finishes folding the map and puts it away. He has not realized how much he had depended on the flashlight for visibility until now. The hall is very dark, and he could have easily missed the door if it were not for the faint light emanating from beneath it. He turns the knob and opens it cautiously. The radio stays quiet and he enters the room.

The office is surprisingly cluttered, considering that the reception supervisor's office appeared to have been almost cleaned out. At one time, this had been used as a proper office. The walls are the same dull-white color as the outside hall and there is a large wooden desk at the back of the room with an old swivel chair. The light comes from a hanging ceiling light with a bulb that is clearly on its last legs. At some point however, the office had begun to be used as some kind of storage room. Sealed cardboard boxes line the walls on either side of the room. Stacks of papers have been spread indiscriminately across the desk. Sandwiched between a stack of boxes and the desk is a small, square safe, with the door slightly ajar.

He immediately goes to the safe; if there is anything important in this room, it will have been kept in there. There is, however, only one object inside: A black, rectangular VHS tape. He takes it out of the safe and examines it. There is a white sticker on the face of the tape. On it, in black ink and handwriting he recognizes as his own, is written _SH, Lakeview Hotel. _ He lifts the back end to examine the actual reel. The glossy, black surface is smooth and unblemished despite the number of years it must have spent sitting in that safe. _It should still play just fine though_.

The tape makes an awkward fit in the side pocket of his jacket, but he reasons it should work all right, given that he does not intend to carry it for long. He considers searching the boxes for something he could use as a weapon, but dismisses the idea. There is no guarantee he will find anything and, judging from the map, he will not have to go very far. But most importantly, somewhere in the basement the flashlight is on, slowly draining the batteries and he does not want to waste more time than is necessary. _I don't want to be in the dark forever_.

I find this last thought ironic. You have been in the dark since the day Mary died, James. In another place, I might quip that a few more minutes are not going to hurt. But in Silent Hill, they just might.


	23. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

He leaves the cluttered office behind, holding the door open long enough so he can use the light to locate the stairwell entrance near the office. The door to the stairwell is metal and cool to the touch. He opens it cautiously. The radio is silent, but the area beyond is remarkably dark. He stands in the open doorway for several minutes, letting his eyes adjust. Eventually, he is able to make out the steps and the railing in front of him.

He is on a small platform and there is only a single flight of stairs that lead down. The darkness makes it difficult to get the lay of the room as he moves down, but from the feel of the rail and the metallic sounds that his shoes make on the steps, it probably has a very utilitarian look. He reaches the bottom and the floor below him sounds like cement when he steps on it. He can see the outline of a door in front of him. He feels for a handle, but instead finds a metal knob. He turns it slowly and opens the door as quietly as possible, aware that, until he can get to the elevator, stealth is his only weapon. As he steps in the hall and closes the door behind him, he hears a small click. Frowning, he puts his hand on the knob and turns, but the knob refuses to move. _Damn it, _he thinks as he shakes his head and turns back to the hallway, ill at ease now that his only way out is forward.

The hallway outside the door bends to the left around a corner. From somewhere beyond there, a light illuminates the hall. He cannot remember the layout of the basement floor and he takes out the employee map. It is too dark to read near the door and he is about to move around the corner and into the light when he hears the radio start to hiss and pop even as the dark shadow of a mannequin moves across the wall from around the corner. James feels his pulse quicken as he steps back into the darkness. Though he knows the real thing is in the main hallway and cannot possibly see him, the harshness of the light casts a very dark and looming shadow, and, as the mannequin briefly pauses for reasons beyond him, he cannot escape the feeling that the shadow itself is staring at him.

He keeps his breathing calm and regular as the mannequin starts moving again. He carefully reaches into his pocket and turns down the radio. Though the Warning has told him that the monsters cannot hear the radio, the sound is distracting and makes it difficult to judge how much noise his own movements are making. He looks back at the shadow and calms himself. The mannequin's slow pace suggests that it is unaware of his presence and its frequent pauses seem like those of a lazy sentry whose patrol has lasted far too long.

While he is safe for the moment, he is not sure what options he has. The door behind him is locked. The hallway is too narrow for much maneuverability and until he can get a decent look at the map, even if he did have enough room to evade the mannequin, he would not know where to go.

The mannequin's shadow begins to move back down the hall. He breathes a little easier, but his heart still pounds. _I have to look at the map_. He silently unfolds it and creeps towards the light on his knees. He holds the map close enough to the corner to catch just enough light to read by. The hall does not appear to be that long, though many of the important rooms are located on this level such as the boiler room, the generator room, a large storeroom, the liquor stockroom and the main kitchen. The elevator door is not far, it is the first right down the hall. The problem lies in the fact that the elevator door will take some time to open from this side. Not much time, but enough to make a mad dash out of the question. _Unless…_

But his train of thought is interrupted as that menacing shadow marches towards him on the wall. He pulls back into the darkness. The shadow pauses and rubs its upper feet together, a motion that reminds him of a spider wriggling its mandibles before seizing its prey. He shivers, wanting to break the door behind him open and bolt. But he knows the mannequin would catch him long before that and so he sits, heart pounding, until the shadow moves away.

He lets out a silent sigh of relief and crawls to the corner. Keeping his head low, he peeks around the wall to view the hallway in full. A ceiling light down near the far end is the source of the harsh light. The bulb used is probably a much higher wattage than was intended and staring at it, particularly after having been in the dark for so long is somewhat painful and he averts his eyes from it.

The entrance to the small side corridor where the elevator doors are located is not far from his current position. The mannequin is making its way back down the hall, almost a silhouette against the bright ceiling light. Apart from some of the light from the main hallway spilling in, the side corridor is dark. The mannequin disappears behind the ceiling light and James pulls his head back around the corner, not knowing when it might turn around and see him.

Things are looking a little better for him. The mannequin patrols the entire hall; if he waits for it to come his way again and then turn around, he could move quietly into the dark corridor while it is looking down the other side of the hall. Once in the corridor, he could hide in the darkness and work on the doors. There will probably be some noise when he actually opens them, but if he times it right, he can be through the doors and repossess the gun before the mannequin can get to him.

So he sits and waits until the shadow comes creeping back. He shuts his eyes to avoid its phantom stare and concentrates on the mannequin's footsteps, relying on his ears to tell him when it is time to move. As it has usually done, the creature pauses when it nears the corner. This pause seems to last forever, and he opens one eye just to be sure that the creature has not somehow sensed his presence. But he sees nothing except the shadow rubbing its feet, perhaps in anticipation of some unforeseen mistake on James's part. But it turns and begins to recede down the hall. He counts to three and looks around the corner. The mannequin is facing away from him. He carefully turns the corner and, keeping one eye on the mannequin, silently moves down the hall and into the shadow of the side corridor. He presses his back against the wall and listens for any signs that the mannequin saw him.

His hearing is distracted as the radio has begun to faintly hiss and pop again. He is certain that he turned the volume down and assumes it must be reacting to the proximity of the mannequin. He freezes and stands very still. But he senses something is wrong; if the mannequin were that close, he should be able to see its shadow in the hall. But there is nothing. Then the mixed scent of plastic and perfume reaches his nostrils and he hears something else. The sound is faint, but close. It is the sound of one plastic surface rubbing against another. It comes not from the main hallway, but from somewhere deeper in the side corridor on his left.

_Oh shit_.

The possibility of a second mannequin had not occurred to him, though he should have thought of it before slipping into the corridor. His instincts are to run, but that would attract the attention of both mannequins and down here in the basement, with a locked door between him and the stairs back up to the first floor, there is simply no place for him to run. Worse still, he cannot stay in his current position for long. The first mannequin will not see him when it makes its way up the hall, but when it turns around and heads back down, he will be exposed. _Except…_

The second mannequin has not given any indication that it is aware of his presence, and, with James unarmed and another mannequin slowly approaching, it has little reason to feign ignorance at this point. _If it hasn't seen me yet, maybe there's a way to buy myself some more time. _Gluing himself to the wall, he moves further into the corridor, as he sees the first mannequin walk past the entrance. _It won't be long…_

His heart is pounding so hard he thinks he can feel his ribcage vibrate with each beat. The radio, despite having its volume turned down, is blaring uncomfortably loud in his ear. And he still cannot think of any plan. He inches himself a little further down the corridor and goes into a crouch so that, at the very least, the mannequin won't be able to find him with its upper set of legs.

But fortune decides to frown on him. As he bends down, he hears his knee pop. It is nothing in the nature of an injury, simply a pocket of air being expelled from between the joint. There is no physical adverse effect on him. In the silence of the hallway however, the noise sounds like a firecracker going off.

He sees the mannequin patrolling the main hallway stop and turn towards the corridor. He hears the mannequin in the dark with him shift as well. It cannot be more than a foot away from him; indeed, if he were standing it might very well have found him already. He slows his breathing. Above him, the mannequin waves an unseen, probing leg around.

The mannequin from the hallway boldly enters the corridor and steps into the shadows where James stood only moments before. And now, a plan comes to him. It is risky, but he has few other options available to him and none of them are particularly safe. He listens for the first mannequin to move a little deeper into the dark. Then, with a trembling hand, he reaches up and touches its hip. He quickly retracts his hand and retreats further into the corridor on his knees. The first mannequin swings one of its upper legs. The kick finds nothing of James, but its heel does brush the second mannequin. The contact is light, and there is no way for the second mannequin to tell flesh from plastic and it swings a crushing blow to the first mannequin. The first mannequin, despite the blow, believes its quarry to has finally revealed itself, and counters with a swing of its right leg.

Surrounded by darkness, the exchange of blows is nothing but a series of thumps to James. But it is enough to tell him his plan has worked. With his hands out, he moves down the corridor until his palms find the cool surface of the elevator doors. It is difficult working in the dark, distracted by the radio and the thudding of the mannequins and it takes him longer than he would have liked, but the doors begin to yield to his prying fingers.

He had not counted on the flashlight however. It has dimmed slightly and the glow is pointed upward, doing nothing to illuminate the hall, but its appearance halts the mannequins in the middle of their scuffle. James hears the pounding behind him stop and he realizes he has been exposed. But he does not let himself hesitate. He pulls the doors roughly eight inches apart—just enough room for him to squeeze through by turning to his side. The mannequins are right behind him, but they are unable to fold their upper legs enough to pass and are forced to kick the doors apart, delaying them slightly. It is all the time James needs however.

He reaches into the bin, grabs the gun and turns. Perhaps as a reward for his ingenuity in evading the mannequins, fortune chooses to smile on him this time and, cushioned by the linen, the gun functions perfectly. He casts a shadow against the door, so it is difficult to tell how accurately he is aiming, but proximity compensates for precision and, ten bullets later, there is a series of shrieks outside the doors and the crisis that dominated his world since he entered the basement is over. The radio is silent.

He changes the magazine and turns the volume on the radio back up, just to be certain. When the radio responds with glorious silence, he lets out a sigh of relief as his heart rate begins to return to normal. He puts the flashlight back in his breast pocket and then retrieves the baton. He extends it and collapses a few times to make sure the fall did not damage it before putting it back into the nylon pouch. He then proceeds to reload his spent clip. The flashlight has dimmed, but not so much that he feels changing the batteries is necessary.

The veins on the mannequins glisten as he steps over them on his way out of the elevator. Perhaps for the first time, he notices that they appear identical in the light. As with so many things, he feels there is some significance to this, but does not have time to ponder it now. He moves cautiously down the harshly lighted hallway, but in the end, he finds no other resistance.

The hall curves to the right before ending in two double doors that mark the kitchen entrance. Doors to the other rooms lined the hallway behind him, but he has little reason to enter them now. He pushes one of the kitchen doors open and, upon hearing the radio's silence, enters it.

The main kitchen is large and brightly lit by fluorescent lights above. There is ample room for several cooks to work, a stove, an oven, a deep fryer, and a metal door that is probably a walk-in refrigerator. The crockery is all in place and appears clean, though a layer of dust on some of the cutting boards suggests the kitchen has not been used in some time. He opens the refrigerator door and finds it empty inside and the air does not feel as cool as it should. He notes the dumbwaiter leading up to the Lakeshore kitchen is on the wall to his right. There is however, nothing of true interest to him here, other than the door to Venus Tears on the far wall. He goes through it and leaves the kitchen behind.

The employee entrance to Venus Tears opens on the other side of the wooden bar. He remembers the bar very well. He and Mary would always have a drink here. The bar is not very large; there are only five stools at the bar and four booths that can only seat two people each. But it does have a nice, cozy atmosphere. The dark green walls keep the light level low and the jukebox, despite its neon lighting, usually plays relaxing music. The bar was rarely crowded, one of the reasons Mary liked coming here, and they would sit at the two stools at the corner of the bar closest to the main door. There, they could have easy access to the jukebox and look at the fishing lure display that stood by the door. Had the case itself not been decorated to match the walls and floor, many of the brightly colored and outrageously shaped lures would have seemed completely out of place, but with the wood frame and green interior, they are just a little quirk of the bar.

He walks over to the lure case to examine it further, but before he gets there something catches his eye. Sitting on the bar in front of "their" stools is the last figurine. She is raven haired and her skin is like ivory except for slightly blushed cheeks and red lips drawn up in a gentle smile. She wears a brown peasant dress and her left hand holds an apple the same color as her lips with two green leaves and a single bite taken out of it. _That's the last princess_, he thinks as he pockets the figurine.

The lure display is forgotten. There is a heavy deadbolt on the door keeping it locked in place on this side. It is controlled by a brass dial on the door. He turns the dial and it unlocks with a heavy click. He pushes the door open and enters the hallway.

Excitement has built up in him as walks quickly down the hall, though as he reaches the stairs and the painting of the snow capped mountains, something occurs to him. He looks back at the corner he just came around and frowns. He finds the mannequin's body with a quick sweep of the flashlight. Unlike the mannequins by the elevator, this one had been bludgeoned as well as shot so some of the veins are twisted differently and there is more blood splattered all over it, but as he examines it closely, he realizes that the veins on this one are identical to the veins on the others. _Have all the mannequins been the same? Or just the ones in this hotel?_ But again, his rational mind tells him the answers are to be had by going forward, not by standing still.

And indeed, while all control I have of his thoughts has evaporated, I too wish him to press on. I had entertained some hope in the hallway that he might be killed before finding the last figurine, but I should know James better than that by now. While he still has a little ways to go before he is offered Redemption, I firmly believe he deserves the truth. It is the least I can do.

In Silent Hill however, the truth is never considered a reward.


	24. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

His excitement is palpable when he arrives at the lobby and it is all he can do to keep from running to the music box. He puts the last figurine in the remaining hole and switches the music box on. But again, no harmony emerges, only the meaningless clatter of keys being struck out of sequence. He stares at the box in disbelief before realizing he has forgotten that there is still one last puzzle for him to solve.

_Okay, I've got the figurines, but they're out of place._ He switches the box off and gently removes each one and then lines them up in the center of the table and reads the inscriptions. _Right, first one, "Beauty both a blessing and a curse thou be." Well, all three of them are supposed to be beautiful. But the Little Mermaid was known more for her voice than for her beauty so this one probably isn't her._ He pushes the mermaid figurine off to the side. _So, Snow White or Cinderella? Hmm…could go either way, Snow White was poisoned for her beauty and Cinderella was mistreated by her stepsisters for being prettier than them. Next one then, "'Twas shameful greed did stain her shoe with blood." Okay, that rules out Little Mermaid again…_He looks at the Cinderella figurine speculatively. "Hmm." _A shoe implies Cinderella, butt I don't remember any blood in that story. On the other hand, a lot of the older versions of fairytales had a bit more violence and gore in them. I think there's a version where the stepsisters force the glass slipper on and it cuts them or something like that…_He puts Cinderella in the center groove. _That means Snow White's beauty is both a blessing and a curse..._He puts Snow White in the left groove. _And finally, "Even so, I still want to believe she was happy." must be the Little Mermaid, I always thought that was a sad one..._He places that figurine in the groove on the right. _Here goes nothing_, he thinks as he presses the switch.

The table begins to rotate and the figurines twirl and raise themselves in a mechanical dance. A wood cutter hews at a tree stump, three gnomes in pointy hats run in a circle, a dog wags its tail, and three ballerinas spin, one in an arabesque pose, another in a one-legged pirouette, and the last, a demi-pli. The Snow White figurine raises and lowers the apple to her mouth, Cinderella wiggles her shoe, and the Little Mermaid flicks her tail.

The chimes are playing in sequence now and the melody is simple, but pretty, repeating every twenty seconds or so. It evokes memories of childhood, of going to bed after a long day of playing in the backyard with friends. He imagines listening to this music while slowly drifting off to sleep covered in warm blankets. And it conjures more specific memories of him listening to it with Mary in the hotel lobby. They would sit on the couch off to his left and she would lay her head on his chest while he enjoyed the fragrance of her hair. But the tune is also a haunting one, for its emphasis is not so much on the memories themselves, but rather on reminding him that those memories are just that: memories and nothing more. Those times are long past; he has grown up and moved away from the backyard in which he used to play and the bedroom where he used to sleep. And Mary is gone and the hotel deserted. The couch and the music box remain, but everything else is ash in the wind, and will never return. At least, not in this life.

But his reverie on the music is interrupted by a click as a hidden compartment opens up beneath the table, where Mary's inscription was. Inside are two keys, one is a large, shiny steel key marked SEC, the other is a smaller brass key with the numbers 312 etched on it. And, perhaps as an omen of what is to come, there is another fully loaded ammunition magazine for the gun. "Hmm." He mutters as he takes the keys and the clip, putting all three away in his pockets. He heads up the grand staircase to the second floor and leaves the music box behind as its haunting melody and wooden figurines continue to dance in the otherwise silent hotel.

He hurries up to the stairs on the third floor. The shiny steel key unlocks the security gate. It is heavy, but he manages to move it aside and enters the third floor. The hallway there is identical to the guest hallways on the other floors. The rooms on this floor are much larger and somewhat more expensive. But he and Mary had never minded. Room 312 is the first room out of the stairway and his hands are almost shaking in excitement as he takes out the key. He pauses before putting the key in, his manners suddenly getting the better of him. _Maybe I should knock first; it would be rude to just barge in_. He respectfully raps his knuckles on the wooden door before entering the room. There is, however no response. _Well, she wouldn't have given me a key if she didn't want me to let myself in._ With his hand still trembling slightly, he puts the key in the lock and opens the door.

The room beyond is just as he remembered it. It has more of a green coloring to it than the others. The carpet and the duvet on the king-sized bed are both a light green, though both contain similar Indian symbols like those on the carpeting in the hall. The drapes on the wall across from him are a darker green, to keep the room dark when closed. They are, however, open at the moment, and the sparkling white walls amplify the light in the room, making it seem bright despite the gloom outside the windows. Between the two windows is a television set sitting on a stand with a black VCR below it. In the corner of the room, between the bed and the window is a small circular table with two green cushioned arm chairs. The door to the bathroom is on his right. For all the aesthetic pleasance of the room however, he feels a surge of disappointment in the pit of his stomach.

Mary is not here.

He looks around, hoping to find some sign that her absence is only temporary, but apart from a noticeable lack of dust, there is no evidence to suggest anyone has been in the room recently. He sits on the bed, dejected. _I've come so far. Mary, you said you were waiting here, where are you?_ Though it is not really an answer to his question, his eye spots the VCR and his hand goes to the tape in his pocket. _I wonder…_

He gets up off of the bed and walks over to the VCR. He pushes the power button and a red light turns on. He switches the television on and static fills the screen. He puts the tape into the VCR and pulls one of the armchairs in front of the television. He then pushes play and sits down in the chair to watch.

The screen goes black for a few seconds and then an image appears. It is the hotel room and the camera is pointed at window next to the table in the corner. Standing in front of the window is Mary dressed in her pink button-up sweater and white skirt, though he had forgotten to adjust the camera's contrast and much of the color is washed out because of the relative brightness of the window. She turns and looks at the camera and rolls her eyes.

"_Are you taping again?"_

"_Yes."_

She rolls her eyes again.

"_C'mon James…"_

"_It's our last day, it's nice outside and we should use up the rest of the tape."_

He hears himself respond from behind the camera. She sighs and sits down in the arm chair and looks out the window, a dreamy expression on her face.

"_I don't know why, but I just love it here. It's so peaceful."_

She smiles and looks at the camera.

"_You know what I heard? This whole place used to be a sacred area."_

"_Really?"_

"_Yes, to the Indians that used to live here."_

She looks backs out the window.

"_I can understand why. It's too bad we have to leave."_

"_I know."_

She looks back at the camera.

"_Promise me you'll take me here again."_

"_I promise."_

She smiles at him.

"_Good. And remember, if you get any second thoughts, I've got you on tape."_

Her smile ends in a short cough that becomes a long rasping cough that turns into a series of five long rasping coughs. That was the very first sign of her illness. Neither of them knew it at the time of course, but the coughing never really went away. It was just the first in a long line of symptoms. He sighs and looks out the window into the fog briefly, but his eyes are drawn back to the television as the screen changes.

This footage is new to him. It is in black and white, slightly grainy and the only sound is the steady, wheezing rhythm of Mary's breath. He can see a hospital bed and on it rests Mary's pale body. He then sees himself enter the frame. He gently strokes her cheek and seems to say something to her. He puts his hand on the pillow above her head. Then the tracking on the tape seems to lose control. The image goes up and down and the wheezing sound becomes both amplified and distorted. He presses a few buttons on the VCR, but nothing happens, the bad tracking seems to be part of the recording itself. He makes out the image of the bed and he can see a dark shape that is probably him standing over it. It moves its arms in a jerky fashion and the Mary's breathing speeds up. The jerking motion of the arms becomes more violent and suddenly the breath turn into a choke. Then the choke suddenly cuts off and the arms relax. The tracking on the tape goes back to normal. James stands there carefully replacing the pillow underneath Mary's head. As his on-screen doppelganger places her head back on the pillow, James can see that her eyes and mouth are wide open in a silent scream. On the video, James closes her mouth and brushes his hands over her eyes. He rests his hand on her chest for a moment and then leaves the frame. The grainy image stays on Mary's lifeless form for perhaps another ten seconds. Then it fades to black and the stages begin.

Denial.

He grunts as he stands up. _Well, this was a waste of time_. _The tape couldn't be real_. He stalks to the window and looks out at the fog. Mary is not here, and the tape has not told him anything he wants to know. _What do I do now?_ He looks at the map of the hotel and then at the map of town. _I should get out of here. I'll go back down to the lobby and leave—I'll break the doors down if I have to—I should never have come to this damn town._

He folds the maps and puts them away. He goes to the door and is about to open it when he stops and remembers the tape is still sitting in the VCR. He goes back to it, pushes the rewind button, and waits impatiently while listening to the humming of the VCR. The tape stops with a series of clicks. James then pushes record, intending to erase the tape.

The button does not respond. He pushes it again. Nothing.

Anger.

He hits eject and looks at the tape. The write protect tab has been pulled. "God damn it!" He swears. He pulls the back of the cassette up and exposes the glossy black tape itself. He hooks it with one index finger and yanks it out. He keeps pulling out foot after foot of tape until finally reaching the end. He flings the tape aside and stomps on the cassette until he hears it crack.

He then picks up the yards of tape he has pulled and begins twisting and tearing at it, mouthing curses all the while. _Why is this town trying to do this to me? We loved this town! Mary and I were so happy here_. He crumples the remaining tape up in a ball and hurls it into the wastepaper basket next to the table. He stomps on the cassette another time and then tosses the pieces into the basket.

He pulls the gun, clicks the safety off and points it at the screen.

Bargaining.

_Wait_; he tells himself, _I shouldn't be upset. The tape's wrong, I wasn't there when Mary died. I can prove it, just remember the specifics…_He lowers the gun and looks out the window. He thinks about the day she died. He knew he was by the phone, waiting for it to ring, when the call came.

"_Mr. Sunderland, this is Dr. Warner."_

"_Hello, Doctor."_

"_Mr. Sunderland, we've both known I was going to have to make this call someday, but I don't think it's going to makes things any easier…" There was only one reason he'd start off like that._

"_It's Mary isn't it?" I knew there was a tremor in my voice._

"_Yes. She passed away about a quarter after nine this morning."_

_So there,_ he thinks, _I was at home when Mary died._ But something about this conclusion nags at him. At first, he thinks it is some degree of guilt or sorrow that he was not present when Mary died. But as he looks out into the swirling fog, he sees his own faint reflection in the glass and he suddenly remembers seeing it somewhere else. He saw himself reflected in a blue eye with three strands of brown hair over it. The eye was wide with fright, and suddenly he gasps as he realizes what was nagging him. _Why was I waiting by the phone? The doctor usually talks to me at the hospital, so why would I be expecting his call unless…_

_Oh my God._

And then the truth, and all it brings with it, comes crashing down on him.

_I killed you on a Sunday morning. I knew that would be a good time because the hospital was never crowded then. I can't remember how long it took me to plan it, but I knew I'd been thinking about it for a while. The treatments had slowed the disease down, but didn't cure it. You were dying. You'd been dying for three years, and for all the doctors knew, you might go on dying for another three. That's why I knew I had to do it. _

_I parked around the corner from the hospital. I didn't want anyone remembering my car in the parking lot. With my spouse on her deathbed, I could have gotten in through any of the main entrances, but the hospital attendants would make me sign my name on a visitor list and I didn't want any record that I'd been in the hospital that day. So I used a side door in an empty alley I knew would be open. There was no smoking inside the hospital so staff would have to come outside if they wanted a cigarette. The administration didn't want them doing it near any of the main entrances where visitors could see them. So they would come to this fire exit. The door had been built to always be locked on the outside. So, some staffers had put a rubber mat inside the doorframe to prop it open. And they'd leave it like that, day and night, seven days a week. I'd passed by the alley several times and had seen staff there, puffing away, coming and going as they pleased._

_But most of the smokers weren't medical personnel, they were maintenance crew and it was a Sunday morning so there would be minimal staff and the chance of me running into any smokers was very small. I entered the hospital and the stink of ammonia was all around me. It took me a while to get to the southwest wing. I passed a nurse's station where a single nurse with curly hair and a button nose sat writing notes on a clip board. She lifted her head when she saw me walk by, following me with her eyes and her head which moved in short jerks, like a bird. I felt like she could see right through me, like she knew why I was here and what I was going to do. But I told myself it was just my imagination and just kept walking like everything was normal. I could still feel her stare, but she never said a word._

_You were on the second floor in the southwest wing of the hospital. A lot of hospitals have a floor like this. The rooms are large and painted pleasant colors. Yours was blue, I think. In addition to the beds, they kept cushioned chairs and couches, and a big screen TV in each of the rooms. There's also a visitor's lounge that has a book shelf, a mock fireplace, cable TV, and more big couches and chairs. There were only two nurses here on the week days and only one on Sunday. The rooms in this ward sacrifice utility for luxury, because patients don't come here to get better._

_They come here to die._

_At the end of the hall is a wide elevator that travels directly to a carport where a black hearse was always waiting to take the departed to any mortuary in the city. About a month ago, they had let you come home. It was only temporary, the doctors never said anything, but I think they just wanted to let you have one last visit home until they moved you here. At first you wanted to die at home away from the doctors or "white coated vultures" as you referred to them. But then in one of your mood swings you accused them of trying to reduce hospital costs by "dumping bodies on their doorsteps without checking to see if they're stiff yet!" and insisted on going back in order to get your "money's worth". The doctors took it in stride, they knew rationality wasn't one of your strong points anymore.  
_

_I climbed the stairs up and looked at my watch. 8:56am. The nurse in the southeast wing checked in on you every thirty minutes. She was always on time; I could literally set my watch to her. She'd go in at nine and then move on. I'd wait two minutes for her to get out of sight. Then I'd move into the room, kill you, and be on my way._

_The elevator doors opened and I stepped into the southeast hallway. I peeked in the visitor's lounge and, seeing no one was there, stepped in to wait for the nurse to walk past. She came by around 9:02 without looking into the lounge. It wouldn't be the end of the world if she saw me, I had every right to be here and I even had a backup plan for what to do if someone found me in the room with you. But there would be less questions if no one knew I had been there that morning._

_You were in room 208 and I could hear you wheezing in your sleep. That awful wheezing sound I'd been hearing every night for the last three years. It seemed odd that in less than an hour, I'd never hear that sound again. I walked up to your bed._

_I had decided on asphyxiation. The doctors told me everything about the disease, including the ways it would ultimately kill you. Asphyxiation was just one item on a long list, but it was one of the more common causes and, unlike renal failure or caseous necrosis, it was something I could casue just as much as the disease. I knew strangling you would leave bruises so that's why I chose the pillow. At least, that's what I told myself at the time. I could just hold it over your face for five minutes and then slip it back under you. You'd signed the Do Not Resuscitate form months ago, so when the nurse came back and found you dead, she'd just get a doctor into the room to call the time of death or whatever it is they do. You'd also said you didn't like the thought of your body being cut open after death and since your organs wouldn't be viable for donation, you'd prefer not to have an autopsy done. Those were the only two ways I could think of that anyone might discover the truth. Without them, everyone would just assume you had finally succumbed to the disease._

_You were so pale on the bed that it seemed the wheezing sound you made was the only outward sign that you were still alive. If you could call this living. There were dark circles under your eyes and three strands of your brown hair hung over them. I stroked your cheek tenderly; God you were so cold. I almost think if I hadn't already gone through some much trouble I might not have done it. But I remembered what I did to get here, I remembered the tantrums, the mood swings, the horrible smell of ammonia, and that damn wheezing sound. God, how I hated you, even though you looked so frail and helpless just lying there on the bed. I knew I had to do this—no, I didn't have to do this. I _wanted _to do this. _

_Just like the video, I reached for the pillow and gently tugged it out from under your head. I took a deep breath as I held the pillow above your head. And then you opened your eyes. You stared at me through those three strands of hair and your eyes widened in fright. I saw my reflection in them and I brought the pillow down hard on your face. I think that was the real reason I had chosen the pillow. I wouldn't have to look you in the eye when you died._

_It was surprisingly easy; I didn't feel you fight back at all for the first minute. Then there was some twitching in your arms and shoulders, but you didn't have the strength to move the pillow. I counted off five minutes. You were dead long before then, but I wanted to be sure. I replaced the pillow and put my hand on your chest, feeling for a heartbeat. I couldn't find one, so I turned away and left the room._

_I walked down the stairs as quickly as possible. The nurse would find you in twenty minutes or so and I wanted to be at home when they called me. I left the way I came, but I made better time. The button-nosed nurse was still at her station when I passed and she still stared at me as I walked away. I felt certain she knew what I'd done, but at this point, there was nothing to do but act natural and ignore her as she followed me with those twitching movements of her head._

_I don't remember anything about the drive home. The call came later than I thought, but at least it came when I was in the house. The letter came the next day. You didn't mail it before you died, I checked with the hospital. I made funeral arrangements for the following weekend. Then I came to Silent Hill._

_You were sick for three years, not dead, though for all it did us, you might just as well have been dead all that time. That's why I don't have any memories of work or holidays since you died. Because it's only been four days._

_Mary, I'm so sorry…_

Depression.

He slumps down into the chair and stares down at the green carpet. He whispers her name once. Then, he begins to cry.

He has seen so many horrible things in this town and once again, as he weeps, he finds himself drawn to the barrel of the gun. It stands before him, dark and strong. It has served him well throughout his time here in Silent Hill. It offered him an escape once, in the hospital director's office. He turned it down then, but he once again considers its offer and the consequences.

He cannot go back to his old life. He cannot go to a funeral with friends and family offering their condolences and the priest blessing her coffin, not when he knows all the while that _he_ is the one who caused her death. So unbearable was it that his mind simply denied his crime. He had thought his life was worthless before he was a murderer, now it seems less than worthless. He puts the barrel against his temple.

His disappearance so soon after the death of his wife will arouse more suspicion that it would three years on. The police will probably be called in much sooner. They will perform an autopsy on Mary; perhaps they will find evidence of murder there. But without him, there will only be speculation on his involvement. There is no proof that he was in her room at the time of her death. The button-nosed nurse might remember seeing a blond man pass by her station twice that Sunday. But despite her penetrating gaze, even she cannot offer solid evidence. A search of his house will reveal nothing, especially now; given that the writing on Mary's letter has vanished, there is no evidence anywhere of his intent to return to Silent Hill. Ultimately, the results will be the same had he killed himself in the hospital director's office so many hours before. His name will be put into a Missing Persons folder where it will be filed away and forgotten.

_It's best this way, Mary, you're where you belong and I'll be where I belong._ His finger wraps around the trigger.

I have him!

But from behind him a sing-song voice suddenly calls out, "Oh Jaaaa—aaaames!"

Or, perhaps I don't.

He releases his finger from the trigger and looks up. Laura skips into the room, oblivious to everything that has transpired and immediately starts chattering, "Well, _there_ you are! You're hard to find."

"Laura, what—"

She cuts him off, "Did you get the letter?"

"No, I…"

"Why'd you leave the restaurant then? I thought maybe you went to look for the letter yourself so I waited for you to come back there but when you didn't I thought maybe you found the letter so then I went looking for you and—and—are you crying James?"

"Yes." He says, unable to meet her eyes.

"Why?"

"Mary's gone."

Laura rolls her eyes and says, "Well yeah, she's gone, that's why we're trying to find her, now c'mon, I want to get moving!" She tugs on his arm.

"Laura," he says in a pained voice, "Mary's dead."

Her eyes widen in shock, "What!" but before he can answer, she recovers and narrows her eyes in anger, "Liar. That's a lie!"

"No...it's not."

"How do you know! She could be lotsa places, maybe not the hotel but—"

"Because I saw her die."

"Oh…" Laura's voice becomes very quiet. "So…she died from the sickness?"

"No…" A lie would have sufficed, but tears well up in his eyes again and he cannot bring himself to deceive this little girl, "…I killed her." And with that, he hangs his head and sobs.

Laura's eyes widen and her mouth drops open and perhaps for the first time, she is utterly speechless. She stares gaping at him for nearly a minute. Then her eyes narrow again and she screeches, "I _hate _you!" She begins to punch his arm and continues screaming at him, "You killer! I hate you! I hate you! Bring her back! Bring her back _now_!"

He lets her tantrum continue, Laura is not really strong enough to hurt him and in truth, he feels he is deserving of this punishment and worse. After a time, Laura's punches begin to grow softer and softer as James hears that her screeches have now turned to sobs.

Finally, she stops punching altogether and looks at him through the tears in her own eyes, "Why? Why did you do it, James?"

"I…" But his own voice starts to crack and he cannot answer her.

"She was always waiting for you James. She'd never go to sleep until you got to the hospital." She sniffs, "Everyday."

"I'm sorry Laura."

"But we've come so far."

"I'm sorry." He says again as a choked sob escapes him, "The Mary you know isn't here."

Laura, looks at him for a moment, watching the tears run down his face and then turns and leaves the room without another word.

James hears the door close behind him. _Now I can get this over with_, he thinks as he looks at the gun in his hand. He raises the gun stiffly, his arm is slightly sore from where Laura was punching him. But he stops in mid-air as he notices something for the first time.

Acceptance.

Ironically, the sight of the gun, which before had seduced him with thoughts of suicide, is now the catalyst for bringing him back from the edge of despair.

_I was holding the gun the whole time_. _Why didn't she notice?_

I have delayed longer than permitted. After being shown the truth, Redemption is offered to Them and I must show him the way.

Static starts on the radio and James is pulled from his musings. He readies the gun, although the room seems secure. Then he realizes he is hearing a voice on the radio. He turns the volume up.

_"James?...James?...Where are you?"_

His heart skips a beat. There is some interference from the static, but there is no mistaking the voice of his wife.

_"James, I'm waiting…I'm waiting for you. Please come to me…"_

There is a desperate yearning in her voice that tugs at his heart. Unsure of whether she can actually hear him, he calls to her, "Where are you?"

_"I'm nearby, James…Why won't you come…Do you hate me?_

_Is that why you won't come…?"_

"Where are you?" He calls again, but Mary's voice seems unable to answer him.

_"Please hurry…Are you lost? I'm near James. I want to see you…_

_Can't you hear me?...Come through the lobby and up the stairs…_

_I'm waiting James…James…James…James…"_

Her voice and the static fade as she continues to call his name. He goes to the door and pauses. He turns and looks at the room one last time. _If I'm right, all this will be gone when I step through this door_. He shakes his head, _I've too many good memories ruined today_. He puts his hand on the knob, which is suddenly very cold, opens the door, and steps into the world beyond.

I have lost him. I lost him the moment that little girl spoke Mary's name. But I am not bitter. There is no bitterness in death, only silence and rest. Besides, not all of Them survive Redemption and there is nothing to indicate that James might be any different. Nothing...I think...


	25. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Once again, the town has changed. The hotel he had entered from the dock was abandoned. The hotel he is in now is a ruin. The wallpaper is peeled and in many sections it has been stripped bare leaving the brown wall exposed. The carpet is mostly intact though the colors have darkened and bled, giving it a dirty, mottled coloring. He notes that it is lighter in the hallway. The reason is a myriad of cracks and holes in the ceiling that run the length of the hall allowing slivers of the gray light outside to seep into the corridor. He notices a layer of soot spread across the upper part of the wall. It grows thicker as it travels down the corridor on his right and the far end of the hall looks as though it has caught fire sometime in the recent past and he now notices many spots on the carpet are singed. A multitude of smells permeate the hall, wet ash seems the most prominent, but there are also traces of damp earth and old sawdust.

But he has been expecting a change like this. Though they nearly cost him his life, he has his final clues and, excellent puzzle solver that he is, begins to put them together as he moves towards the lobby.

_This town _is _cursed, but not for Laura._ _Why not her? Is it because she's only a child? No, it can't be just that. Me, Angela, and Eddie were all killers before we entered Silent Hill. She wasn't. That's why she keeps calling me blind, none of this, the monsters, the ruins, everything else wrong about this town, is real to her. Christ I've pointed a gun at her almost every time we've met since the bowling alley and she never once said a word about it._

The security gate on the stairway is gone and with part of the doorframe beginning to rot, there is no evidence to suggest it was ever there in the first place. The fibers of the carpeting on the stairs are worn and the color has completely bled out, leaving it a dirty gray color. The steps creak loudly as he descends them and many feel alarmingly frail beneath his feet. He leaves the stairwell at the second floor.

He intends to enter the lobby from the grand staircase, but as he comes out the stairwell and turns to his left, he is stopped by a solid concrete wall where a set of double doors used to be. The wall is dirty with traces of black soot, but the wall itself seems to have withstood the ravages of time and, despite the grime, it has no scratches or dents.

He swears and goes back into the stairwell. He moves to the first set of stairs leading down to the ground level but stops. The first two steps are solid enough, but the third step is warped out of shape, and the fourth step is splintered and charred. The rest of the stairway has collapsed, leaving nothing but a dark pit. He bangs his fist against the wall and goes back out to the second floor.

He makes a right and enters the double doors that lead to rooms 201 to 210. The hinges on the doors creak as he opens them. The hallway beyond is bleak. The walls, at best, have been stripped down to the wood with patches of rotting insulation poking through. At worst, they are completely torn away, the ceiling being held up by temporary support columns.

The door to room 210, across from him, has been boarded up as has room 209. The door to 208 is missing and in its place faded yellow caution tape crisscrosses the doorway. The walls are torn out where 207, 205, 206, and 203 should be and the arrangement of the support columns gives no indication of where the doors would be. The walls inside the rooms probably contain large holes as the gray light from outside streams in to illuminate the hallway, which is perhaps the only upside to all this ruin.

Indeed, he is for the ruin as the light allows him to easily spot the mannequin standing almost on the far side of the hallway, approximately where room 204 is located. The radio hisses, and he raises his gun.

_I made these monsters,_ he thinks as he aims. _I made them just like Angela made that thing in the clock room and like Eddie made that man in the apartment and those people outside the freezer._ The mannequin turns to face him and rubs its legs together. Strangely, it makes no move to attack him, but holds its ground. James moves a little further down the hall, if the mannequin is not going to move, he wants to get a better shot at it. He stops just before reaching the section near 207 because, with the wall gone, another mannequin could easily ambush him from inside the room.

He takes the mannequin down in three shots. It makes no verbal sound; it simply drops to the ground. The radio is silent. He walks over to the body. It lays sprawled on the floor, blood seeping out of the three bullet holes in its midsection. He looks down at the legs. _If I'm right about this…_

He kneels down and puts his hand on the leg. It feels warm beneath his hand. He closes his eyes, not wanting to be distracted by the outward look of the leg. He then runs his hand up and down the leg, ignoring texture and concentrating on the shape. As he expects, when all external stimuli is shielded, the shape of the leg becomes extremely familiar. He once had dreams of running his hands up and down legs shaped like this, and indeed those dreams had come true ten dates later when he first caressed Mary's bare leg with his hand. _…That's where this came from._

He opens his eyes and withdraws his hand. Though he needed to know, once he has his answer there is something revolting about laying his hands on this monster in such a manner. He stands up and then notices the door the mannequin stood in front of. It is room 204, but unlike every other door on this floor, it shows no signs of ruin. It stands in sharp contrast to the building around it, the numbers almost gleaming on their own. He tries the door knob and finds it unlocked. He opens the door and steps into the room.

The door closes behind him and he suddenly realizes he is not in a room. It is another hallway. Light pours in through a window with tattered curtains on his left. Just across from him is a door with the number 220 marked on it. _What the hell?_ He turns around to look at the door he just stepped through. It reads 219. He pulls out the map and frowns at it. _I'm in the east wing_. Elements of the town have changed on him before and while he finds this strange, he has become too accustomed to the strange to dwell on it.

Now that he is in the east wing, he reasons he can try to get to the lobby via one of the entrances to the elevator shaft—assuming of course, that there is a concrete wall blocking the entrance to the grand staircase on this side as well. He puts the map away and makes his way down the hall. There was clearly a fire in the east wing sometime in the past. The walls are superficially intact, but completely scorched, leaving nothing of the original hotel decorations. The carpet is black with small patches of gray ash and it crunches slightly beneath his feet. The room doors are blackened irregular holes in the walls. The double doors at the end of the hall have metal frames that are warped from the heat and they emit a loud groan as he opens them.

He finds himself in the short hall that contains the maintenance room, though to his dismay, the doorframe has been boarded up. He walks over to where the entrance to the staircase should be and, sure enough, the way is blocked by a concrete wall. It is coated with a thin layer of black ash, but has still withstood the elements as well as its counterpart in the west wing.

He turns to his right and sees the shiny brass doors of the guest elevator for the first time. The doors and the small panel with the call button seem completely impervious to whatever inferno had raged here before. He walks over to it and pushes the call button which lights up like a small ember. A bell rings and the doors open. The inside of the elevator is neat and polished, with wood paneled walls and brass railing. He steps in and goes to push the first floor button when he realizes there is no button for the first floor. The buttons on the panel are only for the second and basement levels. "Hmm." He mutters and pushes the basement floor button. The elevator hums gently as it descends. The sound reminds him of the hum of the hospital elevators and that in turns reminds him of the patients. He begins to piece together another bit of the puzzle.

_There were three patient files on the desk. Arthur Oswald, Jonathan Simpson, and Earl Donovan. Arthur was suicidal, but no one knew why. So was Angela and I didn't know why either. Well, at least I didn't until I met her in the Labyrinth. And then there was Earl Donovan. What was it the doctor said? "Strong persecution complex with extreme violent tendencies?" That describes Eddie almost perfectly._

He sighs and shakes his head. _And that makes Jonathan Simpson me. The doctors didn't believe he caused his daughter's death. But I'll bet he really did kill her and tore that hair off of her. What else did it say? "Violent when agitated" "minor psychotic break-down" I don't know about violent when agitated—although I did get pretty steamed at Laura when she said she knew Mary in the hospital. And then at Angela when she said I'd cheated on Mary. As for minor psychotic break-down—well I just mentally stretched four days into three years, I'd call that a psychotic break-down, "minor" is probably understating things a bit._

He taps his fingers against the wall. _But then there's Maria. She's the odd one out. There wasn't a patient file on someone like her. Hell, I don't even know what brought her here. And why did she look so much like Mary? She isn't like the monsters because Laura saw her outside of—_He stops suddenly, realizing he has made an assumption that is not necessarily true. _I only have Maria's word that she saw her. Laura never mentioned seeing Maria. It never really came up, but…no if she'd seen a woman that looked like Mary she would have definitely asked about her in the hospital, or the restaurant, or maybe even in the hotel room. _

"Hmm." He mutters, thinking about his time with Maria. _Okay, let's say the bowling alley never happened. Is there any other evidence to prove she's real?_ He goes over it in his mind. _We met in the park. I mistook her for Mary, then she introduced herself and I explained about the letter and then I mentioned the hotel, she made that crack, I got grouchy and tried to leave, she talked me out of it, I let her come with me and she said—_

The bell in the elevator rings at almost the same time the bell in his head rings—"_Thank you James."—Jesus Christ, I never told her my name is James._

The doors open and his thoughts are interrupted as slimy water oozes into the elevator. He pulls the gun out of the holster and stuffs the spare magazine into his jacket as the water level continues to rise. The water reaches to the tops of his thighs before finally leveling off. It has a strange, oily feel to it and, despite it soaking him below the waist, he feels no significant change in temperature. It smells strongly of ash and has a slightly gray cast to it, reminding him of the mist outside the hotel.

He wades out of it and into the hallway. The guest elevator drops him off in the short hallway near Venus Tears. He is hoping to get through the stairway up to the first floor. But those hopes are quickly dashed when he sees a fence built out of metal construction rods blocking the hallway just before the turn. He tugs at one carefully, it does not budge. He pulls his hand away and finds his palm and fingers lined with black soot. He lowers his hand into the water and shakes it, trying to rinse the soot away. He pulls his hand back out and flicks his fingers a few times before realizing that they are completely dry. He rubs them together trying to determine if he has simply gotten rid of more water than he expected. But his hand is definitely dry. Puzzled, he scoops some water up into his hand and lets it drain out. Apart from a slightly thicker consistency, it feels like water, but every drop he scooped up drains back down into the gray murk as if repulsed by his hand somehow. "Hmm." He mutters.

He carefully pulls out the map. He can still access the first floor if he can get to the employee staircase, though he worries about the upper passages being blocked off. He goes to the door of Venus Tears. The door is locked again, but it is so badly scorched that it splits open with a quick ram of his shoulder. He pushes aside the pieces of the door and enters the bar.

Surprisingly, apart from the water, a few blackened spots in the corners and the charred doorframe, the bar appears untouched by the fire itself. Time and water however have attended to what fire could not. The liquor bottles behind the bar are all empty, broken, and dirty. Four bar stools protrude up from the water's surface and he can see the tops of the booths. There is no sign of the jukebox or lure display. If they survived the fire, they must be underwater. A look up at the ceiling reveals several skillfully conceal water sprinklers. He speculates the flooding was caused by a malfunction in the turnoff valve and poor drainage. Speculation is secondary however to the white noise on the radio.

He points the gun around, searching for the spitter. But he sees no movement in the room and the kitchen door is closed. An unsettling possibility occurs to him as he remembers the creatures could swim in the shallow water of the Labyrinth. He moves cautiously into the room. He feels something brush against his ankle and he kicks at it. His foot connects, but the feel of the object against his shoe identifies it as a fallen bar stool. He moves closer to the bar and tests the strength of one of the stools still upright. It wobbles slightly, but is still able to support his weight. He sets the gun on top of the counter, climbs up on the stool and jumps over the bar. He splashes as he lands, but the water does not seem to cling to any part of him. He watches the waves created by his impact roam the room. He is uncertain what it is he is looking for in the misty ripples until he sees a series of waves curl in a place near the far corner of the room. He picks the gun up and shoots into the water.

There is no shriek, so he assumes he has missed, but the ultimate goal is achieved as the writhing form of the spitter emerges from the murk. Hours ago, the sight of the creature rising from the water without making a ripple would have terrified him. But much has happened since his entrance to Silent Hill and he is no longer intimidated by a single spitter, no matter how eerie its entrance. He keeps his gun trained on the creature, but another question looms in his mind and the only way he can get the answer is to somehow take the spitter alive. Keeping one eye on the creature he searches the sink until he finds a small serrated knife that was probably once used to cut lemons and open wine bottles resting behind the faucet. He picks it up and drops it in the side pocket of his jacket.

The creature begins to shamble over to him making that horrid gurgling noise. James fires one shot into the water below the creature. He has some worries about the unusually thick water slowing the bullet down, but a shriek from the creature indicates it has done enough. He vaults the bar, leaving the gun on the counter and picks up one of the stools. Holding the cushioned end forward, he charges towards the creature and rams it in the head. His intent however, is not to do the creature harm, but rather pin its head against the wall. The creature does spit once, but the majority of the spray is deflected by the stool. He pushes against the creature until he finally sandwiches the head between the cushion and the wall. Wiggling the stool, he manages to roll the creature's head to one side. It continues to struggle and spit, but it is simply too weak to dislodge the stool, and, with its head pinned, it cannot aim the spray towards James. Each time it sprays though, James can hear the beginning of the word.

He shifts so that he is holding the stool against the spitter with his shoulder as he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the knife. He waits for the creature to spit again and then quickly slices the surface of its chest with the knife. He does not cut deeply; he is not trying to injure the creature, but rather to cut through the membrane that covers it. The knife saws through, but its dullness does not allow him to make a long enough incision before the creature spits again, forcing him to withdraw his hand. He makes another try and manages to cut a little more before withdrawing. It takes him three more tries, but finally the tear begins to ooze the same brown fluid that the spitter in Toluca prison coughed up. He wonders if he has torn some sort venom sac, because the more fluid that flows from the wound, the less spray the creature makes.

There is a final wheeze, and then he can hear the spitter's word, the word that every spitter has been trying to speak to him since the tunnel, the word that is in fact not just a word, but an entire phrase.

—_James…don't kill me_—

The voice is small and pathetic, and James drops the stool, feeling almost ashamed at having treated the creature so roughly. The creature wheezes again and then speaks.

— _Don't hurt me…please don't_...—

The creature begins to slide down the wall and he wonders if draining the creature's secretions has the same effect as draining its blood. Two spindly arms work their way out of the tear in its skin and claw at the air. But these are merely death throes, as the creature's voice is getting weaker and weaker until it utters one last plea for mercy and the radio goes silent.

He watches as the body slowly sinks beneath the surface of the water, a few bubbles rise to the surface as it disappears underwater. He turns and collects the gun and moves into the kitchen. Though he knows it is only his imagination, he can hear the creature whisper one last phrase from beneath the water. But it is not a plea this time.

—_You…killed…me_—

He barges into the kitchen. The door is hard to move because of the water. The light in the ceiling is out, but the double doors on the far wall are open and there is enough ambient light from the hallway to let him navigate the kitchen. Aside from hitting his foot against a submerged soup pot, he makes it to the hallway without incident.

The hallway outside seems untouched by the fire as well, however age seems to have taken its toll. Apart from the water, there does not seem to be a smooth surface anywhere. The walls are scratched and warped and the ceiling lined with cracks, some of which allow light from the outside in. The doors to the liquor storage, electrical room, boiler room and pump room are all sealed off. He slogs through the water until making a left into the hallway where the mannequin used to patrol. It is darker here and the smell of rotting wood is mixed in with the wet ash.

He plods down the hall, noting that the employee elevator doors have been sealed. He is however, fairly certain that the employee stairs will be intact; that area is mostly concrete and metal which should fair better against fire, water, and time. The door is dented, with spots of rust on it, and it is difficult to open because of the water's resistance. But a slightly welcome sight beyond makes it worth the effort. The stairs, while a little darkened and dented, rise up to the first floor platform where the door waits. He trudges up the first few steps and clears the water. He stops while it drains out of him. The sensation of it coming out of his clothes is odd, it feels more like soft sand than liquid. When it is done, he shakes his legs out and finds himself almost completely dry. He holsters the gun and places one of the spare magazines back into the pants pocket.

He puts his hand on the handle of the door, it is surprisingly warm but the significance of this does not occur to him until he unwittingly enters the conflagration beyond.

It would appear that he has not entered the first floor employee wing, but rather a stairway of the hotel. There is a wood door on his right. The stairs in front of him appear much as they did before he entered room 312, but with one obvious difference. The fire that had consumed the ruined hotel still rages in the stairway. He is ready to turn and bolt, but stops as he sees a lone figure sitting on the stairs.

Angela, oblivious to the flames around her, stares at a picture on the wall. It is nearly six feet tall and at first reminds him of the monster he encountered with her in the Labyrinth though as he looks closer at it, he realizes there are some differences. Namely the shape beneath the skin is clearly humanoid and does not move. The dried blood and charred spots appear more as stains rather than injuries. As he examines it he realizes the figure is actually three-dimensional and juts out from the painting as though the person beneath the ugly membrane was actually fixed to the wall.

The flames themselves halo the painting and cover the walls on both sides of the stairs. He turns away from the painting and calls Angela's name, but she does not seem to hear him. He moves towards her and feels the heat wash over him. But something is strange. Though uncomfortably warm, the flames do not seem to be generating as much heat as they should. There is also something wrong with the air; fire grown and fed like this should be producing thick clouds of black smoke, which should fill the entire stairway. But instead, what little black smoke is produced rises to the ceiling where it forms a very thin layer that travels up the stairs, collecting itself at the top and only then thickening to obscure the landing. He dares a closer look at the walls and sees that while the fires rage, they do not consume.

Given what he now knows about the town and Angela, he makes accurate guesses about the meaning of the flames. He approaches her and says her name gently, "Angela."

Angela turns towards him and, upon seeing him, stands up and runs to him excitedly.

"Mama! Mama, it's you! I was looking for you!"

James is taken aback, "Angela, no I—"

But she does not hear his words and wraps her arms around him. "Mama, I'm so glad I found you. You're the only one left…" She buries her head in his shoulder, "…maybe now I can rest…"

James gently pulls himself out of her grasp and begins to back away towards the door. "Mama!" Angela calls, "Why are you running away?" She catches up to him and puts her hands on his face and draws him close. "Mama, what's wrong? You…" but she trails off as she examines his face. "…oh," she says, disappointment in her voice, "you're not Mama…It's you." she pulls her hands away and looks down. "I—I'm sorry…"

"It's okay Angela."

She turns and begins to walk back up the stairs. She stops after three steps and timidly turns back to him, "I…thank you for saving me. But I wish you hadn't." She looks down again, "Even Mama said so…I deserved what happened…I should have left it alone…"

There was no convincing Eddie, but he feels he might have a chance with Angela. "That's not true Angela. No one des—"

She puts her hand out, "No. I don't want your pity." She turns away. "I'm not worth it." She says, almost to herself, as she begins to climb the stairs again.

"Angela—" he starts again, but she suddenly turns around with her eyes fierce.

"What? Do you think you can save me?" She laughs a heartless laugh and then sneers. "Well, can you? Will you love me? Take care of me? Heal _all_ my pain? Hmm?"

_No, I suppose I couldn't_, he thinks, feeling somewhat foolish, _a few hours ago I wasn't listening to me either._ But he knows these words will be meaningless to Angela and he says nothing.

She stares at him with her fierce eyes and then shakes her head, "Huh. That's what I thought." She starts to turn again but then looks back at him and narrows her eyes. "James," she holds out her hand, "give me back the knife."

"I can't." He decides to keep the location of the knife to himself.

She smirks, "Saving it for yourself?"

"No, I'd never kill myself." He knows these words are a lie and Angela's expression says she knows it as well.

"No, I guess not…not with a knife anyway…you'd rather use that gun." She walks back to the painting and sits down. "That knife was there for me. Just like that gun was there for you, only it came to me long before I got to Silent Hill. It was there, in the kitchen, after daddy did…_it_...to me for the last time."

"You killed him with it?" It _is_ question, though his tone indicates he already knows the answer.

"I didn't mean to kill anyone." She pulls her knees in and wraps her arms around them. "I just wanted to make sure he wouldn't do _it_ again." She swallows hard, her pale face shimmering in the heat waves. "He fell asleep on the chair watching the TV. He'd been drinking and having cigarettes, like he always does after..." She looks away, "I went to the kitchen, I had to get the taste of him out of my mouth. I was going to the cupboard to get a glass…" The dreamy expression he has seen so often spreads across her face, "…and there it was, lying next to the sink, all shiny and polished. I picked it up and saw my reflection. Not my whole reflection, but just my eyes, you know? And…and I was pretty." Then her face grows melancholy, "But I moved it a little and saw my mouth. It was so ugly, and so was my nose, my chin, my forehead, my hair. I wanted to cut it all away." Then her face softens again. "But when I started to move the knife, I saw my eyes again and they were pretty. You know what that meant?" She stares at him, waiting for a response.

James is unsure if he should provide a genuine answer or simply let her talk. In a peculiar way, he feels almost the same as he did when he listened to Eddie ranting in the meat locker, though he does not find her physically threatening. He decides talking might be better for her. "What?" He asks.

"It meant the only parts of me that were ugly were the parts daddy touched when he…" She takes a breath, "…Then I remembered the neighbor's dog. It liked to do _it_ to other dogs. But the neighbor took it to the vet and that made it stop. The boys said that the vet made it stop by cutting his _thing_ off. I looked at the knife and I knew I could make daddy stop the same way." She gives a wistful smile. "I took the knife to the living room and saw him there." Her smile fades. "He was snoring in that chair of his, with his zipper still open. So I undid his belt buckle and pulled his pants down." She sighs happily, "And then I cut him. I didn't think he'd scream so loud though, I never screamed that loud."

"Angela," He says, making one last try to break her out of her reverie.

But Angela has never told her story to another living soul before and she continues without regarding his word. "He bled so much too, I don't think I ever bled that much—not at once." Her eyes water and her lips quiver, "He shrieked at me, 'You dirty bitch, I'll make you drink this blood!' Then he tried to grab me." She wipes her eyes and then smiles, "But the knife was there. It told me it could make him stop screaming too. So I put it in his throat. And it made him stop." She giggles, "He started begging. His voice sounded funny after I put the knife in his throat." She imitates the voice, a choking whisper, "'Baby, please. Stop. Please'" Her voice returns to normal, "I always asked daddy to stop. But he never did. Now I know why." She looks in James's eyes and her grin is absolutely vicious. "Because it felt _sooo_ good. So I did it again. And he begged me to stop again. But it still felt good so I kept doing it, just like he kept doing _it_..." The grin fades. "Then I realized he was dead. I knew I'd be in trouble, daddy always told me I'd be in trouble if I told anyone about _it_ and this was probably worse." She clears her throat. "So I poured the liquor on him and I lit a cigarette. If they thought he'd caught fire from one of his cigarettes, they wouldn't know about me and the knife. I was trying to put the cigarette in his hand when I looked at the stairs and…" She looks at the painting, her voice breaks down and she starts to weep.

James studies the painting from where he stands. The figure has been scaled to fit the entire six foot frame, but James notices from the proportions of the limbs and the head, that the body beneath the shroud is _not_ an adult. He quickly pieces together the rest of the story.

"You didn't think Donny was watching, did you?" He says gently. She nods without looking up. "He ran into his room, you went after him. Then the fire started."

"He wouldn't come out." She sobs, "He just kept screaming 'Angie, Angie help me! The monster's got a knife!' I begged him to come out, but the fire was all around us and then I heard him scream from behind the door, he kept screaming so loud…and th—th—then he stopped and the only sound I heard was like hamburgers cooking and I thought he was dead."

"Is that why you were in the graveyard? You were looking for their graves?"

She looks up and smiles through her tears, "No, no, no, no, he survived the fire." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded sheet of paper, "See?"

James opens it and finds a crayon drawing of three stick figures holding hands. One is taller than the other two and has short, curly hair. "mommy!" is scribbled next to her. One of the shorter two has long straight hair and is marked "angie!" The other is just a plain stick figure with the word "me!" written next to it. A bright yellow sun has been colored in near the top and in the background a series of green squiggles, brown triangles and a large blue oval is probably meant to represent Toluca Lake. The drawing appears to have been done on construction paper. But it feels softer than new construction paper and the corners are worn. The wax of the crayons is smudged and areas that were originally white now have flecks of green and blue on them.

"How long have you been looking?" He asks.

"I don't know."

"How old are you?" A woman of Angela's age might have taken offense, but James suspects Angela is unaware of her true age.

"I'll be fifteen in October." She answers absently.

He hands the drawing back to her, "I thought you said your mother was the only one left?" He regrets this question as she suddenly stands up and her tone becomes one of dull depression.

"I've found the others since I came here. Mama's the only one left." She turns away from him and begins to walk up the stairs

"Angela, don't go up there. Let's get out of this stairway." She ignores him and continues to climb. "Come on," he says, trying to sound cordial, "it's hot as hell in here."

She stops and looks back at him, "You see it too?" There is a brief trace of curiosity in her voice, but she shakes her head and turns back to the stairs, "For me, it's always like this."

He takes a step forward but a wall of fire erupts in front of him and he can do nothing but watch her ascend the steps one at a time. The heat makes the air shimmer around her as she disappears into the black smoke much as she first appeared to him in the fog of the grave: a ghost in the Ether. He looks at the smoke for a moment. _It doesn't matter, I can't save her anymore than I could save Eddie, or even that they could save me._ He leaves through the other door.

Many Lost Souls enter the mists of Silent Hill. Some roam the town, seeking answers to the questions the Call always brings with it. Sometimes They find them, sometimes not. What They have in common is a refusal to pay the price Redemption demands and so They are left to wander town, until time, rather than the town itself, grays Their hair, wrinkles Their skin, and withers Them away into dust and bone.

Such a one was Angela Orosco.


	26. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

There is a chill in the air as he steps through the door, although he suspects it is merely the shock of the sudden dissipation of the heat from the stairway. He is in the employees section of the ruined east wing, where he should have come out when he went through the basement stairway door. The area seems bigger than it did before, an optical illusion created by the number of missing walls. He wonders if the hotel fire had originated here as the fire damage seems most extensive here and there has been more salvage work here than in other places. Stretches of hazard tape run across the openings in the wall, temporary support struts dot the rooms and tarps cover several surfaces. However, though repair work had obviously commenced, it has not been sustained. The hazard tape is faded, the tarps are weather beaten and the struts show signs of warping. There is an opening to the outside somewhere as a thin mist floats about the area, giving it a mournful ambience.

He moves to his left, noting that the walls and floor are damp, perhaps from the mist. The silence of the hall is broken by periodic dripping sounds of water somewhere in the tattered ceiling. He stops before rounding the corner. The office that once held the safe where he found the video tape is now just a skeleton of its former self with the windows smashed out and the walls burned away, leaving only warped wooden posts like blackened ribs. Through those posts he can see to the other side where there is no first floor door, but another immutable concrete wall, standing in defiance of time, heat and James himself.

He consults the map again. His options are running low, but he knows there must be a way through to the lobby. There is an emergency exit to the hotel next to the security office. He had not been able to get to the office before, but with the floor in this state of disrepair, he could easily break down the doors blocking it off, _assuming they're even in one piece_.

He turns around and goes back past the stairway door. The hallway is being held in place by several support beams, but he notices through the broken doorways that parts of the ceiling have collapsed in the rooms beyond. Indeed, with the inner walls and ceiling broken, and the doors missing, it is difficult to tell where one room begins and the other ends.

The hallway turns to his right and there is no sign of a door blocking his way. He moves into the next part of the hallway. The door to the security office is gone and worn yellow hazard tape has taken its place. But he ignores the office and instead looks to the emergency exit door. It was painted blue once, but the paint has been chipped away and all that remains is the rust-spotted metal of the door. Strangely though, he notices the wall surrounding it is not the wood of the hotel, but rather the cement of the wall that bars him from the lobby.

He touches the cool cement and traces a line in the dirt. He puts his hand on the door and pushes. It opens easily, but when he steps through, he does not find himself outside. Instead, he is in a narrow corridor with ceiling and walls constructed of concrete. The floor below him is a black metal grate with a dark abyss below. He takes a few tentative steps into the corridor and the door closes behind him. The hall turns left around a corner and continues.

It is just past this corner that the rattling begins. He can hear only one hanging monster moving beneath the grate. He extends the baton and advances quickly. He has a plan which he wants to try but he must move quickly or the creature may begin to cut the grating away. He goes forward until he can see the mitten-like hands swinging below the grill. He watches as the veiled face of the monster presses itself up against the iron floor and opens its mouth. He jumps back as the slime coated blade rises up through the metal and swings the baton. There is the loud clang of metal striking metal. The slime covering the blade is too thick to spatter and instead three large droplets plop down on the floor.

He had hoped to disfigure the sword enough to prevent the hanger from retracting it, but the blade shows no sign of damage. And yet, the hanger leaves it extended. The sword flicks around in the hole as though it were a serpent's tongue trying to taste the air above. James swings again, harder this time. The clang is louder and the creature below makes a gagging sound. Not bothering to analyze the effect, James swings again and again. His third stroke succeeds in bending the weapon near the point. The hanger pulls the blade back, but with the bend near the top, it cannot redraw it into the hole.

With its only weapon caught, James kneels closer and looks at the hanger's face. Beneath its sheathing of skin, he is certain it is the face of a woman. One woman in particular…

"Say it." He says to the face.

The hanger twists around, trying to free its sword as black slime oozes down and starts to dribble down its chin. It makes a strangling sound and then spits the sword back up, and gags a familiar word.

—_Don't_—

Despite its twisting, it cannot change the angle of the sword's thrust, leaving James unfazed and waiting for the creature to complete its speech. Its face twists up again and then it speaks. The voice is deep and throaty, the protruding sword distorts the L and M sounds and causes it to lisp, but the words are otherwise clear:

—_Don't leave me—_

He stares at the creature, which is still trying to free the sword and a wave of pity washes over him. The slime begins running down the sides of its cheeks and bubbles as the hanger repeats itself.

—_Don't leave me_—

His eyes lock with the hanger's, "I'm sorry." He says. And for just a moment he truly is. But then he feels movement beneath his feet as the creature moves its hands under him.

—_Stay with me_—

The hands press up against the grate and then, as if they had become thick ooze, they slide through the holes of the grate, splitting themselves into scores of wriggling fingers that firmly seize his shoes.

—_Forever_—

He tries to pull away but the grasp is too strong. He swats at the fingers with his baton, careful not to hit his feet by mistake. The fingers he strikes writhe in pain, though the creature itself gives no outward signs of agony. He clears away the fingers surrounding his left foot and they retreat back into the grate like maggots burrowing into rotten flesh. Having freed the one foot, he has enough leverage to pull the other loose, though he nearly loses his shoe. The creature is quick to pull its remaining hand out of the grate, but the sword still holds it in place and James sprints down the corridor before it can free itself.

The corridor ends in a metal door that has been painted a dark gray to match the surrounding walls. The knob is metallic but, eager to escape the corridor, he pays little attention to this or anything else about the door as he pulls it open. Somewhere behind him, the creature cries out to him one last time.

—_Don't leave me…_—

It is difficult for him to tell which side of the lobby he has ended up on. The corridor that led him here is not on the map and, after his encounter with the hanger, he cannot remember which way the corridor turned. But he is unconcerned as he has been brought to the right place. On his right are the crumbling walls and burnt timbers of the hotel. On his left is the ubiquitous concrete wall, but this time it holds a door.

The door is enormous and was once black cast iron, but time has slathered it in a layer of rust, making it a dull burgundy. It is adorned with a strange diamond pattern that runs in columns up and down the length of the door. The handle and latch are large, black and rough. He stares at the door and shivers. There is something ominous about its size. It towers a good five feet above his head and he estimates it must be at least six feet wide. The handle's size would require him to use both of his hands to work the latch. It is as though this door is not meant for a mere human to enter.

He takes out the ammunition clips and makes sure they are all loaded. He puts one into the gun, slides a round into the chamber, drops the magazine again and tops it off. _Forty-one shots, I hope that'll be enough_, he thinks as he holsters the gun.

He pushes the latch down with one hand and pulls the handle with the other. The rusty hinges growl rather than squeal as the door opens. The door is even heavier than he expected and he notices that there is no handle on the other side, giving him the sensation that he is neither meant to enter, nor permitted to leave. But, having come this far, They never turn back and so he steps through and lets the door close behind him.

The room hardly resembles the lobby anymore. The size is the same and there is a set of crimson double doors at the far end of similar make to the one he just entered. The carpet is the same composition of fibers, but like on the third floor, the colors have bled leaving it a mottled burgundy with the exception of a black outline of the Mark that was once mine, seared into it. The concrete walls appear old and rough, though there is uniformity to the texture that suggests they were designed to look that way. The room itself is nearly devoid of anything—with one horrific exception.

The grand staircase is now gone but the floor above remains, like some raised stage. A very short, dark gray altar sits in the center. Suspended upside down over it by iron chains, her face pink from the blood rushing to her head, is Maria's struggling form.

James feels a lump forming in his throat, but he clenches his fists and looks away. _She's not real_._ Just walk to the door_. He makes it to the middle of the room. But then she sees him and wails his name.

"_Jaaaames!_"

He stops and looks up at her as dozens of memories come flooding into him. Though he consciously tells himself that the woman he sees up there is nothing more than a simulacrum formed in his mind and given flesh by the town, a knot still ties in his stomach as her blue eyes meet his. Then a flicker of movement on the left side of the floor above catches his attention. Then another flicker appears, this time on the opposite side.

"Oh my god." He says as the shadows on each side of the floor spawn two looming figures.

Pyramid Head. Or rather, two Pyramid Heads.

They both carry black-bladed spears held in front of them. They walk in unison, with a measured executioner's pace. Maria screams as she sees them and flails her arms, trying in vain to reach the chains that hold her legs. The Pyramid Heads reach the sides of the altar and rap the bottoms of their spears on the floor.

"Leave her alone!" He shouts, but the Pyramid Heads do not give any indication that they have heard him.

Instead, they turn and walk behind the altar in their slow, measured pace. Then they stop and turn to the front. Their spears lower.

"_Jaaaames!_" Maria screams again.

"_No_!" He shouts, but it is too late.

The Pyramid Heads thrust their spears into Maria's back. Her body stiffens and she gives one strangled cry before falling silent. A small trickle of blood flows out of her mouth and a larger one falls from her back and pools on the altar.

He collapses to his knees. _I couldn't let myself get away with it. That's why I needed you. Punishment for my sins._ He rises to his feet and draws the gun. _But that's over now. It's time to end this._

The Pyramid Heads walk to the edge of the floor and pound the butts of their spears again. James takes a few steps back, knowing exactly what is to come. Soundlessly, the Pyramid Heads leap in unison down onto the floor and begin to flank him. The Pyramid Head to his left, the first one he saw, grips the spear in both hands and advances with the point forward. The second one, on his right, does the same, though he maintains a single-handed grip.

James finds his pulse quickening and his heart beating fast. In past times this was always a fear response. But the difference between fear and excitement is merely a matter of perception and now, he feels no fear. He has his reservations of course. Pyramid Head has always been invulnerable to bullets; James has only survived previous encounters through evasion or by Pyramid Head's own accord. He cannot run here, there are no bars or elevator doors to keep him safe, and the Pyramid Heads will most certainly _not_ withdraw. But, despite all these odds against him, he does not fear. And so I am left to dictate the rules of engagement to make his task daunting, but not impossible. I settle on the number seventeen. There is no particular significance to the number to it, I merely feel it will allow James a small margin of error given that he will not have an opportunity to reload.

He focuses his first attack on the second Pyramid Head, reasoning that a one-handed grip indicates intent to throw, making him the more immediate threat. He fires six rounds before retreating a little farther away.

Seventeen—sixteen—fifteen—fourteen—thirteen—twelve.

Pyramid Head twitches slightly with each impact, but his pace does not slow and the bullets do not seem to cause any other physical injury. He grunts and empties the rest of the clip into the monster.

Eleven—ten—nine—eight—seven.

He drops the magazine and lets it fall to the floor as he shoves its replacement in. He quickly moves to his left, leaving the dropped clip behind. He knows that Pyramid Head will never give him time to reload it.

_Okay, if I can keep the first one in front of me and stay circling I can keep the other one from throwing that damn spear at me._ The Pyramid Heads maintain their speed, taking each of their steps in unison to the slow tempo of some unseen headsman's drum. James continues to circle until the figure of the first Pyramid Head blocks the second.

James begins to fire the gun at the first Pyramid Head. It is then that the Pyramid Heads break their rhythm and James has gotten off only three shots when the first Pyramid Head charges.

Seventeen—sixteen—fifteen.

James quickly sidesteps and avoids the thrust. But Pyramid Head is faster than James expects and he recovers from the thrust quickly enough to take one jab at James before he can move out of range. But James has already choreographed a sequence of maneuvers in his head and he ducks under the spearhead. He fires four more shots. Pyramid Head again twitches with each hit, but the bullets open no wounds.

Fourteen—thirteen—twelve—eleven. Not bad, James.

James, aware that he is still within the first Pyramid Head's range and at risk of being backed against the wall, begins moving again. Because of the charge, the gap separating the two Pyramid Heads has widened and James darts through it, trying to reach the corner to the right of the entrance door. Though this does not keep the Pyramid Heads lined up, it does put the first Pyramid Head far out of range. He aims at the other Pyramid Head, who is now approaching him—targeting the arms in the hope that it will hinder his ability to throw the spear accurately. Only two bullets find their mark however.

Six—five.

Pyramid Head cocks his hand back. James, having prepared for a toss of the spear, crouches and moves to his left even as he drops the empty magazine. But Pyramid Head surprises him. Rather than throwing the spear, he runs forward three steps and then thrusts the spear into the ground in front of him and pole vaults forward. James locks the new magazine in place but before he can slide a round into the chamber, Pyramid Head lands in front of him and swats the gun out of his hand.

_Shit!_

His hand stings from the force of Pyramid Head's blow. Before he can dive for the gun, Pyramid Head puts his foot down on it and kicks it behind him. He then steps forward and grabs James by the throat. But James pulls out the baton, not bothering to extend it yet, and hits Pyramid Head on the side of the wrist. Though his hooded face remains as implacable as ever, Pyramid Head releases his grip on James, who quickly scrambles away.

He extends the baton and searches the floor for the gun. He sees a glint in the corner but before he can do anything else he hears the footsteps of the first Pyramid Head behind him. Remembering his sequence, he steps to his left, avoiding the first jab of the spear and turns. He has seen the spear smash through the grate in the Labyrinth and so he doubts the baton would block a direct blow from the blade. But the shaft is constructed of wood and, as long as the baton does not make contact with the spearhead, he might be able to use it to deflect Pyramid Head's attacks by hitting the shaft. Pyramid Head is quick and skilled with the spear but James hopes he can hold his own long enough to retrieve the gun.

He ducks under another thrust and inches himself a little closer to the corner. The next blow is a horizontal chop and James quickly swings the baton. Contact with the shaft rattles his hands, but the chop is parried. Pyramid Head recovers and thrusts the spear at James. James parries again, but the strength behind Pyramid Head's attack sends vibrations up the baton so violent that James nearly drops it.

_This is no good,_ he thinks, _my hands are going to go numb if I have to block too many more of these._ Pyramid Head winds up for an overhead strike and James suddenly sees an opportunity. He steps to his right, ducks, spins, and swings the baton low. Pyramid Head aborts his strike as the baton hits his left heel. If James had stopped and waited to see the effect on Pyramid Head, he would have found himself disappointed. The foot is swept off the ground, but Pyramid Head brings the butt of the spear down onto the floor to compensate for the sudden loss of balance. To the casual observer, it merely appears as though Pyramid Head is stomping his foot. Fortunately, James takes a risk and does not wait to see the outcome of his gambit and instead bolts to the corner.

He grabs the gun and slides a round into the chamber. As he does so, he hears a thud behind him and instinctively ducks as the spear of the second Pyramid Head shoots just above his head. _How the hell did he get here so fast?_ He wonders as he turns and fires. But he only gets one shot off.

Four.

Rather than pull the spear back for a second blow, Pyramid Head swings the end low, sweeping James's feet right out from under him. James has gotten used to falling however, and he maintains his grip on the gun long enough to fire three times from the ground. Pyramid Head twitches with each bullet, but manages to kick the gun out of James's hands once again. He then pins James with a heavy foot on his stomach and raises the spear overhead for the final strike.

Three—two—one.

Enough.

_**CRACK**!_

James stares up in shock as the first Pyramid Head blocks the descending spear. He feels the pressure on his stomach from the other Pyramid Head's foot lessen and he quickly scrambles out from under it and retrieves the gun. It is only then that he stops to watch the curious exchange.

They once again move in a slow, steady rhythm. The single-hand Pyramid Head sets his foot down and faces the double-grip. The double-grip Pyramid Head taps the front of the single-hand's body sixteen times and then traces a circle around a small hole in his abdomen. The hole is black and though there is not a speck of blood, the size and shape is unmistakably that of a bullet hole.

James does not realize the specific number required, but the significance of the ritual does not escape him._ I'll be damned_, he thinks, _he _can _be hurt._

The second Pyramid Head nods to the other and then turns to face James, who begins to back away. But Pyramid Head makes no effort to pursue. Instead, he gives James a salute with his spear and then marches to the center of the room where he bangs the butt of the spear on the ground once and then stands still. The other Pyramid Head turns to James, resumes his stance with the spear pointed forward, gives him a slight nod, and then charges.

James empties his clip before retreating but this time it seems Pyramid Head moves faster than he can flee.

Ten—nine—eight—seven—six—five.

He drops his empty magazine and pulls out his last clip. But he has trouble loading it while running backwards. He turns and runs full speed along the edges of the room, nervously glancing at the Pyramid Head that stands immobile in the center of the room. He can hear the footsteps behind him. He slams the magazine in and ducks to his right. The spear whistles in the air above him and he slides a round into the chamber and turns. He brings the gun up but Pyramid Head turns the spear horizontally and thrusts the shaft at him. It slams into his abdomen just below the ribcage. The force of the blow expels the air from his lungs and propels him backwards.

Time seems to slow down and James's mind screams at itself. _Damn it! Just breathe, James. Suck the air in, and when you land, do NOT let go of the gun._ He feels the landing. His hands tremble as the vibrations of the impact travel up his arms and his hands will not stay still. _If you let go of that gun, you are a dead man!_ He takes in some air, not much, but enough to sustain him and slightly expand his diaphragm.

Pyramid Head senses his advantage and bears down on him. James's hands still tremble, though they are still wrapped around the handle of the gun. _Point the gun and shoot_. He takes another breath. Pyramid Head stands over him. James starts shooting.

Four—three.

Pyramid Head reverses his grip on the spear and draws it back, twitching with each shot but otherwise resolute. James, just as resolute, stares death in the face and fires.

Two—one.

And done.

When the crimson-shafted spear is at the apex of its height, a round, black bullet hole appears on Pyramid Head's shoulder. Both combatants pause. James inhales a little more air. Pyramid Head touches the hole with one finger, as though seeking confirmation and then lowers the spear.

"**Hmm.**"

Once again, his movement is timed to the unseen drum as he raps the butt of the spear on the ground and salutes James with it. He then turns to the other Pyramid Head and they both nod and begin to circle around the center of the room, walking in unison. James sits up, still breathing hard, and watches with grim fascination. The Pyramid Heads flank the center of the Mark and stop from across one and other. They rap the butts of their spears on the floor again. They then turn towards James and salute him again. They turn back to each other, bang the floor again, and salute each other. They each reach inside their robes and pull something out, though the object is deliberately hidden in their fists. Then, they pull their hoods open just far enough to let the spear through and, with arms spread wide, they impale themselves through the neck with a loud crunch. Then, all is silent, except for the small dripping noise as dark blood streams down the shafts of the spears.

Stunned, James stares at the pair of monsters, half-expecting them to start moving again. But apart from the blood running down the length of their spears, there is no movement.

His breath regained, he walks around the room, retrieving his dropped ammunition clips and the baton, all the while keeping an eye on the frozen Pyramid Heads. After he is finished, he walks over to them. Blood is pooling beneath them and the smell of it floods his nostrils. He steps carefully to avoid it as he looks at the object clutched in Pyramid Head's hand. It is rectangular and covered in dried blood. He tugs on it gently. The material is slightly flexible and a familiar metallic rattle inside leads him to believe it is a cardboard box. Pyramid Head's fingers are too stiff to pry open, but the box bends enough for him to work it loose.

He rips off the top and finds twenty hollow point bullets. He frowns and walks over to the other Pyramid Head. Sure enough, he too clutches a bloody bullet box. James pulls it free and reloads all his magazines. The figures stand silent. When he has finished loading he looks at Pyramid Head's metal hood.

_I have to know_, he thinks as he puts his hands on the bottom of the hood and pulls up. It is heavier than he expects and Pyramid Head's height makes getting the hood over his head even more difficult. James gives a hard heave, lifting himself up onto his toes and the hood flips backwards and lands on the floor with a loud clang. He looks at the face for a moment and then turns to the other Pyramid Head and removes his helmet as well. He feels a chill pass through himself as he looks at the true face of Maria's three-time executioner.

The faces are identical to one and other. The head is covered in dried blood, leaving the hair dark and matted, and the skin dusky. The eyes are colorless, lifeless white orbs that even in death stare back at James. The black blood that is shared by all the monsters of Silent Hill trickles out of the mouth. But the face is still easily recognizable. There is no mistaking the jaw line, the shape of the nose and the cheekbones. The face of Pyramid Head is the same face that he saw in the mirror of the soiled bathroom at the rest stop just before he entered the mist.

His face.

While the sight makes his blood run cold, it does not surprise him. He has had suspicions ever since the Labyrinth and it somehow seems fitting that he himself should have an avatar of his own in this town. A counterpart to kill Maria, just as he himself killed Mary.

Remembering Maria, he looks to the floor above. The altar still stands, stained with blood. But Maria herself is gone and that in turn reminds him that his ultimate goal is the roof. With the gun loaded, he turns to the wall under the upper floor and goes through the crimson double doors, leaving

This is, of course, only his penultimate battle. Confession is not the same as redemption or else Eddie would be free of this town. And remorse is not the same as redemption or Angela would have gone long ago. These things are important certainly, but to leave the ranks of the Damned one must obtain Redemption and there is one final test before he is can be granted that.


	27. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

The building layout no longer resembles anything on the map and the crimson doors lead to a long corridor that slopes upward. He wonders briefly if he has been transported back to the old hotel. The walls are intact and though unadorned, still have a slight blue cast to them. But the illusion is broken as he notices small traces of the fire here and there. There are small pockets of soot in the corners where the floor meets the wall and the carpet, while undamaged by flames, has that same mottled color. It seems this hallway was deliberately protected from the fire, as though to ensure it would be fit for passage. A layer of mist still swirls about the hall, maintaining that feeling of gloom and obscuring the end of the hall.

He is tired from the fight and he walks up the hall slowly, trying to conserve his energy, though he can feel adrenaline building inside him. A faint smell of fresh air tells him that there must be a hole to the outside somewhere and he draws some encouragement from this. He wants to plan on what to do when he reaches the roof, but in truth, he has no idea of what he will find up there. An hour ago, he would have guessed Pyramid Head, but the confrontation in the lobby tells him it will be something new and something dangerous, or else he would not have been given the bullets. But as he moves on, he can feel his anxiety subside and boredom set in as the mist refuses to part, leaving him walking in a seemingly endless hallway.

As before, when boredom sets in, his thoughts begin to wander. The fresh air smell suddenly triggers a memory. A memory from the day when this all began. Not the day that he arrived in Silent Hill or the day he received the letter, or even the day that Mary died, but rather the day he began to plan her murder...

_I was coming to the hospital after work with a fresh set of flowers. I knew the last set would have begun to wilt by now and the nurses would probably have thrown them out. The visitor lot was full again and I had to park on a side street. I passed the alley by the smoker's door and glanced at a lone nurse outside who was practicing blowing smoke rings. She wasn't very good._

_I entered the hospital through the main doors and went up to the second floor. I held the flowers close because their scent helped mask that awful ammonia. I'm not sure I would have brought them so often if they didn't._

_I got to the second floor and signed my name on the visitor's list. The nurse smiled at me and mentioned what a good husband I was, always bringing you flowers. I smiled back and thanked her. I had gotten pretty good at faking smiles. I walked to your room and steeled myself. These visits were always difficult so mental preparation was extremely important. When I was done, I took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of the flowers, and stepped into your room._

_I heard you wheezing the moment I opened the door. It was deep and slow and when I looked at your sickly face on the bed I thought you were sleeping so I tried to be quiet. But your eyes snapped open the moment I stepped towards the bed._

"_What do you want?" You barked at me. And so it began._

"_I, uh, I brought you some flowers—"_

"Flowers_?! I don't want any damn _flowers_!" You rolled onto your side and put your back to me. "Just go home already."_

_I was used to this by now, but I was never good at dealing with it._

"_Mary, I—"_

"_Look," you cut me off and turned your deathly white face back towards me, "I'm disgusting! I don't deserve flowers. Between the disease and the drugs, I look like a monster!" You held up one of your hands. It was pale and emaciated and I had to admit it looked like there was more bone than flesh on it. Your wheezing was louder and, with your eyes so dark and sunken, the word that always came to my mind was "banshee". But I never said anything. _

_"Well?" You dropped your hand, "What are you looking at?! Get the hell out of here!" When I didn't respond, you rolled back onto your side and said "Just leave me alone."_

_  
I stepped back and waited, listening to you wheeze. I knew your tirade wasn't finished yet. You turned onto your back again and stared up at the ceiling. "I don't know why you bother. I'm no use to anyone…I'll be dead soon anyway. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow…" You snorted and then cleared some phlegm from your throat. "It'd be easier if they'd just killed me…but since they can't harvest my organs, the hospital makes a little more profit if I'm alive." Apart from the organs thing, none of that was true. The hospital had always been a non-profit organization. You volunteered for an experimental treatment. It didn't work of course, but the researchers got their data, which would help in the long run, and that made you happy. Until, of course, you told them to stop the treatment. After that, the doctors gave you six months. But six months turned into three years and they had to start giving you a new cocktail of drugs to make you as comfortable as possible because the disease just wasn't killing you fast enough._

_Your eyes turned back towards me. "Are you still here? I told you to leave!"_

"_I—" But there was never getting a word in edgewise with you, not yet anyway._

"_Are you deaf? I told you to get out!" I turned to leave. "Don't come back!" You were trying to hiss, but it came out as another wheeze that sent you into a long, croaky coughing fit._

_I walked slowly to the door; this still wasn't the end. I often wondered why I didn't just leave anyway. I'd spent a lot of time talking with the doctors, the hospital staff, even your family, trying to make you more comfortable. I had argued, begged, cajoled, and once even threatened to sue the insurance companies to keep them paying your medical bills. And of course there was the paperwork, God I hated that. Insurance forms, consent forms, hospital forms. I had to get durable power of attorney because you were far too ill to deal with any of that. And through all this, I always made time for you. I had held your hand so often, given you so much encouragement and support. I stayed up whole nights worrying about you. You knew damn well I'd done all that and I didn't deserve this kind treatment, not from you of all people. I wanted to turn around, shout all of this at you and then storm out of the room leaving you sick, alone, and miserable. _

_But I never did. I knew it wouldn't do you any good and there was always a chance you might die in the night. If that happened, I didn't want my last words to you to be about what an ungrateful bitch you were._

_Besides, I knew your belligerent phase was almost over. In fact, over the years I'd even timed how long it took for your mood to change. Five…four—I could hear you sob behind me—three…two…one…_

"_James…Wait…" You cried out, "…Please don't go." I turned around and looked at you. "Stay with me," you pleaded with your quivering lip. I walked back towards you. Your eyes were damp and I felt slightly ashamed of myself. But only slightly._

"_Don't leave me alone."_

_I nodded and set the flowers on the stand next to your bed. "I didn't mean what I said James. I…"_

_I pulled the visitor's chair over to you and sat down. I put my hand in yours._

"_James, tell me I'm going to be okay…Tell me I'm not going to die…" In the beginning, I felt sympathy every time you said that. But after three years, it just sounded like whining._

"…_Help me…" But I couldn't. _

_And that, I think, was the worst part of all. _

He stops in the hall and shakes his head before moving on. It was the same conversation every time. Occasionally, the wording would change but the emotions it evoked were always the same. After three years, these conversations did not number by the tens, or the dozens, or the scores, but by the _hundreds_. And finally, all his defenses were worn down and the dark feelings at the back of his mind began to surface and take hold. The choice was made.

_After you fell asleep later that evening, I left the room and the hospital with its smell of sterile death and breathed in the fresh night air. I'd grown so tired of all this. And I think you had too. So it happened when I was passing by the alley again and saw two janitors finish their cigarettes and go back inside. The door stopped just short of being closed, leaving a small crack of light shining out into the night._

_Maybe there was a way I could help you after all…_

The mist in the hall finally parts and reveals a plain brown door, slightly warped from the damp air. He opens it and finds himself outside. He is on a concrete sidewalk with metal railing and just beyond it are the silent waters of Toluca Lake. To his left is a set of metal stairs set against the wall of the hotel, at first resembling a fire escape. He sighs, not relishing the thought of climbing so many steps to the top of the roof, but he knows he will continue, even if it means climbing a hundred more flights of stairs.

He goes up the first set, the heavy clang of his footsteps breaking the silence in the air. As he gets to the top, he finds that he is not on a fire escape, but rather a narrow platform running the length of the building and he realizes this is the sort set up by construction crews to allow themselves to repair buildings that are not yet safe enough to work inside of. Overhead is another such platform and he is somewhat grateful for the stairs. Much as he hates climbing them, the thought of scaling a ladder is even worse and he doubts the safety of an elevator exposed to the weather for this long.

He goes up the next flight of stairs, taking him to the third floor. He has to walk along the platform a little ways before he finds the next set of stairs. He looks out briefly, hoping perhaps that he has risen above the fog. But it still hides the lake and surroundings in a churning gray cloak. He turns back to the final stairway and begins his ascent. He stops at the halfway point and looks above him.

The steps bypass the roof and instead lead up to an enormous platform composed of steel girders and a metal grate nearly twenty feet above the roof. Apart from the stairs, the platform is surrounded by steel fencing and thick pipes. As he looks at it, he decides it is not so much a platform, but rather the skeleton of what is intended to become the fourth floor, though as with all construction in Silent Hill, there is no sign that any work has been done on it recently. Through the grate he can see a large rectangular object seated near one side of the fencing, though the holes in the grate are not big enough to show him anything other than its silhouette.

His heart pounds and, ignoring the burn in his quadriceps, he races up the last part of the steps. When he reaches the top he sees that this is definitely intended to be another floor. He notices metal crossbeams connecting massive girders in each corner of the platform. The fence is nearly eight feet tall and built solidly enough to prevent any sensation of vertigo. The whole of it makes him think of the platform as more of a room, despite the feel of the open air. At any other time, he might have wondered how such a heavy structure could be supported by a building as old as the hotel, but this is not any other time, as something of far greater interest waits for him.

The object he saw below sits across from him next to a square hole in the fence that is meant to become a window. The object is a simple bed, with white sheets and a curled-arch wooden headboard.

A woman sits atop it with her back resting against the headboard, looking out the window as if she could see through the fog and into the woods, lake, and mountains beyond. She wears a pink button-up sweater and a white blouse with a lace collar. On her waist is a white skirt that shows a tasteful amount of leg and a pair of white slippers cover her feet. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a bun. She hums a nameless tune until she hears his first few footsteps on the grate.

She stops and turns her head to him. Her skin is white but the contrast with the even whiter skirt and blouse give it a healthy, tanned look. Her eyes are a deep blue and she smiles a small, but warm smile at him.

"Hello darling…" says his wife.


	28. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Redemption is earned in two parts. The first is the Sacrifice, the second is the Temptation. One must be offered, the other must be resisted. And so the test begins…

"Mary?" After so many false hopes, it seems surreal to finally find her, especially in this cold, steel, skeleton of a room.

She tilts her head slightly, still smiling. "James." Her smile fades, "I've been waiting."

Excitement makes his words rushed, "I—I'm sorry it took so long. It was just, the hotel and the monsters—"

"No," she says softly, "I meant from the beginning, when you got my letter…Didn't you want to find me?"

He walks over to her, he badly wants to take her in his arms but he avoids the temptation for fear that she is another specter that will vanish with his touch. Instead he speaks to her. "No. God no, I wanted to see you more than anything—I even settled for an illusion of you. I'd never have come here if I didn't."

She swings her legs over the side of the bed and rests her palms on the mattress. She looks at him sadly. "That's not true, James. You killed me…"

There is a small catch in his voice. "I know, honey. I couldn't—"

"You hated me." The words are softly spoken and because of that, they hurt more than anything that James has encountered since he first ventured into the mists. Perhaps if she had shone some sign of aggression by raising her voice or narrowing her eyes, he could attribute it to an emotional outburst. But her expression is so honest that tears begin to well up in his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I was so tired…and I thought you were too, so I…I…" But the words end and the tears begin.

"You're sorry?" There is a short pause between the two words and through his tears he cannot see the slight flare of her nostrils and the setting of her jaw. "Is that why you needed this 'Maria' person?"

"What?" He says, wiping his eyes.

"If you're so sorry, why are you so attracted to a woman you just met?"

Now he sees the warning signs. "No, no, no. She was made to make me suffer—" but it is too late.

"Make you suffer?" She stands up on the bed, her voice rising with her body. "_Make you suffer_?! I could see you with her! I know how you touched each other down in the hospital, I knew what was going through your mind when you snuggled with her in the basement, and don't even think for a minute that I don't know about that kiss you shared in the Labyrinth! That is _not_ suffering!"

He cannot control his crying now, "I'm sorry Mary…"

"Don't you 'sorry Mary' me." Her voice now has the volume of a whisper and the fury of a roar. "I'll tell you what suffering is. Suffering is an incurable disease that just can't kill you fast enough. Suffering is three years, day and night, of needles in your arms, legs, stomach and places you can't even imagine. Suffering is having your one true love walk into your room one day, look you in the eye and snuff out your life with a pillow. _That_ is suffering." She tilts her head to the side again. "And it didn't even end there." Her voice is painfully calm again, "James, I haven't even been buried yet and the man I loved is already having thoughts about another woman."

He drops to his knees and rests his forehead on the bed. "I know."

She stomps her foot on the bed, the springs inside snarl to match her voice and he pulls his head back up. "No you don't! You've no idea what this is like! You don't deserve what you have! You get to walk through the forest, eat roast beef sandwiches, sleep in hotels, and kiss pretty girls as much as you want to while I'm stuck in a coffin, pumped full of formaldehyde, just waiting to be buried in the ground and left to rot!"

"Mary, please stop."

"Why should I?"

"Because, I can't live with this. I've been a wreck ever since you died—"

"—you killed me four days ago." She interrupts

"I know. And it was so awful I convinced myself I hadn't even done it. I might have been all right if I kept telling myself that. But now that I know the truth…? I don't know how I'm going to go on. And, even worse, to know how much I've hurt you…that's more than I can bear." He pulls out the gun. "Just say the word and I'll send myself to Hell. If it will give you even one shred of peace you can do it yourself." He offers her the handle. "Take my life. If it's bringing you misery I don't want it anymore."

Kneeling on the platform, high above the hotel, shrouded in the mist of the town, James surrenders his life to the woman he loves. And thus is the Sacrifice offered.

In cases such as this however, I cannot allow the offering to be accepted. She pushes the handle of the gun back towards him. "That's all right James." Her voice has suddenly become sultry and he looks up, hearing something disturbingly familiar in her tone. A lop-sided smile begins to spread across her face, "See? You're not such a bad guy after all."

"_Maria?_"

She giggles. "You've got to stop making that mistake, James. It's going to get you into trouble some day. Just remember, Mary's dead," She points a teasing finger down at him, "you killed her." He gets up back onto his feet. "Oh, don't worry, I don't care about that. You said you were sorry. You even offered to kill yourself." She laughs at him. "I think that puts you up there with Romeo and Heathcliff."

"Maria," he shakes his head, "I understand about this town now. I know where you came from and I know why you're here. But I don't need you anymore."

"Well of course you don't _need_ me anymore." She bends down and lifts his chin with her hand. He can smell orange sherbert on her palm. "But you still _want_ me. Come on James, I can be yours. We'll be so happy together!" She straightens up and jumps gleefully on the bed and turns towards the window. "It's so lovely here. We'll stay in the hotel and watch the sun come up every morning, take walks by the lake, and sit in Rosewater Park and wait for the sun to set before going to quiz night at Neely's. After that, it's back to the hotel for some smooching and snuggling." She turns back to him and winks. "Or maybe something more." She lies down on her stomach and brings her face even with James's. "And I'll never yell at you or make you cry, not like she did. I'll be here forever." She offers him her hand. "Stay with me." Her voice is low and breathy, propelling its warmth and wonderful taste of cinnamon into his mouth.

Temptation.

He stares into her blue eyes which he finds strangely hypnotic again, just like in the Labyrinth. Her smell weaves its spell with every breath he takes, memories come to him again. But this time, they are not memories of Mary. They are memories of his time with Maria. Pleasant memories. Sharing sandwiches in the general store, laughing together in the hospital, the soothing feel of her hands as they massaged cream into his burning skin, and of course, the kiss in the Labyrinth. Then visions of the future Maria promised come to him. Picnics in Rosewater Park, sunrises on the lake, laughing and winning quizzes in Neely's, walking arm-in-arm through the town, and sharing kisses behind dark green curtains in Lakeview Hotel. He can feel his heart aching for such things…

…_No, _his rational mind jumps in, _I've been here before. Don't look at her, James. Be analytical about this. She dies every time you get close to her, it'll happen again if you accept her offer—Of course, that was only because Pyramid Head killed her. Now that he's dead, maybe—No, if this town brought back Maria, it can bring back Pyramid Head. This town will never let you be happy. Besides, none of this is actually real, you created it in your mind—But so what? It doesn't matter how real it is as long as I'm happy—You'll never be happy if you stay here; you'll end up like Angela._

He tears his gaze away from her eyes and looks out the window. He sees only fog. Though it may wish otherwise, his heart knows that the Silent Hill he remembers is not here. Nor is the woman he would have as his wife. He wipes drying tears off of his face and looks Maria in the eye.

"No." He says, pushing her hand away.

And in the space of that single instant, he is granted Redemption. One moment, his death would be the passage to Hell. In another, his ultimate destiny is in Heaven. Just like that. One word and he is free to roam the earth and to eat, shit, and die while an immortal such as I must remain in this town stuck with the rest of Them and Their misery. But I am not bitter. There is no bitterness in death, only silence and rest...

…Except I am, perhaps, overly fond of that mantra and, while I believe it to be true, in repeating it I am denying a single, glaring fact which I mentioned in the very beginning:

I am not altogether dead.

I had a body of flesh and blood that was destroyed in the collapse of a mother's dream and a little girl's nightmare. But I was not killed, only bound inside the incorporeal prison that is called Silent Hill and forced into labors far beneath my dignity. I, who once stood amongst the ranks of the angels and shook the gates of Hell, I, who once defied the pathetic laws of Heaven and made my own destiny, I, who once walked the Earth as a god and bent the essence of life itself to my will, I was cast down, bereft of form or substance, and for all true purposes, stripped of my powers. To be sure, I can still call forth horrors, as evidenced by every accursed soul that enters the town, but in truth, it is in the depths of _Their_ minds that the monsters of this town are shaped and formed. I do have some power over when they appear and how they behave. But even then, there are rules, oh so many wretched rules, rules that stretch beyond the Warning and Redemption. Rules about weapons and rest and food and what I can and cannot think and do. Over time, I have learned to work with them, but I hate them still. It would be no great thing if I were some dispassionate spirit, willing to eke out its existence in the afterlife. But I am not such a spirit. I still retain the consciousness of a true immortal and have been put at the mercy of my own feelings of impotency. Because of that, I felt concern at Laura's first appearance in Woodside Apartments and I wanted to shriek with frustration when she first said the name Mary on the wall outside of Blue Creek. I was smug when James saw Pyramid Head's black spear tear through Maria's head while he stood powerless in the elevator. I wanted to laugh as he pointed the barrel of the very gun I gave him at his head and I keenly felt the hot disappointment when he was once again saved by the presence of the outsider. I was elated when Eddie first trained his gun at James and pulled the trigger. And no one could know the sheer ecstasy that came upon me when James blasted a bullet into that fat bastard's brains. And I was so chagrined when Laura gave her letter to James that if I had a skin of my own, I would have clawed it off.

And so, the preponderance of emotion with little means of expression combined with the complete depths of this injustice leaves me very, very, _very **bitter**_!

It is because of bitterness that I took such care in building the attraction between James and Maria, and then ensuring its gory destruction. It is because of bitterness that I was so relentless in tormenting Eddie with all the incarnations of the men, women, and animals that had ever humiliated him until I crushed his sanity and forever imbued him with the paranoia that ended his loathsome life. It is because of bitterness that I have reminded Angela year after year of how her father violated her by the grandfather clock and then make her watch as her brother calls her a monster while his brains boil in his skull. And it is because of bitterness that I indulge in a third and final phase of Redemption.

He turns away from her and sees that the entrance to stairs is gone, replaced by the metal cage of this arena. He quickly turns back to her. "What's going on?"

Maria's lop sided smile is now a sneer and she stands back up. "I'm sorry James. When I said 'stay with me' I shouldn't have made it sound like a question." Her head twists to one side as she starts to levitate above the bed.

James draws the gun. "I'm leaving."

Her head twists to the other side. "I'm sorry James. I can't let you."

He is a predator and for the final phase of Redemption, I require him to make one last kill. James has created Maria from his subconscious mind and Silent Hill has made her part of his reality. But she has been given an awareness of her own and before he can leave this town or even this very building, he must destroy her—or be destroyed by her.

The mattress of the bed turns black and rots away. The headboard crumbles into ash that falls through the grate. Maria's skin turns gray with shiny veins. The black, steel frame of the bed rises up to surround her like a cage but her clothes and hair stretch out and turn into a dirty brown membrane, not unlike the webbing that covered the spitters. It binds itself to the frame, as if it were adorning armor. Her eyes roll back into her head, leaving two black sockets. Her lips turn black, her teeth vanish, and the corner of her mouth extends almost to her ear in an exaggeration of her characteristic lop sided grin.

_Jesus_. He points the gun up at her and fires. James had been a novice marksman when he first fired the gun in room 307 but, like Harry Mason before him, he has suffered through enough horror to steady his hand and focus his aim. He hits her and she shrieks at him. As she does, a swarm of insects fly out of her mouth and descend on him. They have the shape of butterflies, the color of beetles, the sound of cicadas, and the fury of hornets. He runs at first, fearing they might have some venomous bite or sting, but they are simply too fast for him to escape. The first one hits his jacket and he turns and instinctively begins swatting at them. Their bodies are delicate like a moth's, and feel like powdery fiber as he crushes them in his hand. A few land on his skin, but apart from emitting an angry sound that is somewhere between a hiss and a buzz, they do nothing. Despite the ease at which he can destroy them, they continue to swarm around him with little regard for their own safety and he is forced to kill every last one of them before the swarm abates.

Their true purpose is revealed as soon as he clears the last handful. Maria hovers right above his head, her approach concealed by the swarm. He points the gun, but a hole opens up in her flesh and a black tentacle slithers forth from it and lashes out at him. He knows he cannot avoid it, not when it is this close, so he drops to his knees, holds the gun tightly and takes his finger off the trigger. The tentacle hits him in the front and sends him rolling backwards. But, having been so close to the ground already, momentary disorientation and another superficial bruise are the only injuries he sustains. He is used to both by now and comes up firing. Maria's head twitches and snarls at him after the first bullet hits. She rotates the bed frame and deflects his second shot. She shrieks again, releasing another horde of butterflies.

Now that he knows them to be relatively harmless, he runs to the far corner of the room. They still surround him and cloud his vision, but he resists the urge to stop and fight them off, although he does swat at them while he runs. He reaches the corner, crouches again and then starts fighting off the butterflies in earnest. He moves as fast as he can; with the insects clouding his vision, he has no opportunity to size up his opponent, no opportunity to analyze her strengths and weakness as a predator would. He brings the gun up and fires three times in a random spread, attempting to determine if Maria is closing in. He hears one bullet make a loud, heavy clang and he guesses it has struck a pipe somewhere, also noting that shooting in this room carries a small risk of ricochets. Another bullet is silent, having been propelled into the mist. The final bullet makes a dull chink and he recognizes the sound of accelerated lead being blocked by a steel bed frame. _She's probably about halfway here, judging from the distance of the sound_.

Discharging the gun has an unexpected benefit. The insects' bodies prove extremely flammable, and the muzzle blasts disintegrate large pockets of the creatures, allowing him to get a clear view of Maria. She hovers towards him, her movement appears relatively slow, though he has no way of knowing if she is capable of moving faster or not. The only other thing he notes before taking aim again is that she flies too high above the grate to make attacking with the baton feasible. The gun will be his only weapon.

He empties the rest of his clip at her. She again spins the steel frame and deflects one of the bullets, but the other three find their mark. She hisses and releases another horde. He runs to the other corner as he replaces the spent magazine. _It's not much,_ he thinks, _but if I can keep this pattern up, I should be able to kill her_. A foolish thought. Maria may have the body of a monster now, but that does not mean her mind has followed suite.

The insects catch up to him. Two well-placed shots ignite most of them and he quickly swats away the rest. He points his gun up, but Maria has already released another swarm. It seems larger and louder than the others and he does not have enough time to move before it catches him. He uses his hand to ward them off at first, but they are so thick, he ends up shooting the gun four times to rid himself of them. When they cleared away, he brings the gun up again, but Maria is not there.

He is puzzled only for the briefest of moments, but it is still long enough for the black tentacle to come from behind and wrap itself around James's midsection. It lifts him up off of the ground. He quickly puts the muzzle of the gun against the tentacle and shoots. He hears Maria hiss above him and the tentacle lets him go. He drops to the ground and manages to land on his feet. He points the gun up, but before he can shoot, a second tentacle drops and curls around his wrist. The tentacle is unable to wrest the gun out of his hand, but it does manage to pull the barrel away from Maria's form. James grabs the tentacle with his other hand. It is cold and sticky, and stronger than it looks, but he manages to free his hand. But by then the first tentacle has twisted around his waist. He goes to point the gun at the tentacle again, but before he can, a third tentacle wraps itself around his upper torso, binding his arms to his chest. The tentacles hold him still as Maria circles to face him. Her head twitches and she snarls at him, releasing another swarm.

He has no means to ward them off any more and they land on him and crawl around on his skin and bury themselves in his hair. There are so many he can feel the vibrations of their angry buzzing in his teeth. They cloud his vision and he can feel some of them creeping inside of his clothes. Then a fourth tentacle ties itself around his throat and slowly begins to squeeze.

Maria speaks to him, but not through her mouth. Instead, the words come from changes in the rhythm and pitch of the raging song of the butterflies that radiates through his body.

—_You deserve to die too, James_—

He cannot respond. The skin on his neck feels numb and the pressure on his windpipe is too much too allow speech.

—_Feel what it's like, James. Feel the life being squeezed from you_—

His arms are pinned; trying to free them will only use up precious oxygen. He twists the hand with the gun around, trying to slip it out of the tentacle's grasp. He manages to push part of the gun out, but the tentacle forces him to keep the barrel parallel against his face. He can feel the insects inside his shirt flap their wings against his chest.

—_See the darkness in front of you. Feel the burn in your lungs. Hear my voice and know Death!_—

The tentacle tightens. He can point the gun upwards, but the muzzle is too close to his face for him to safely fire it. Spots and stars dance in front of his face. _Well, if I'm going to die anyway…_

He squeezes his eyes and turns his head as far as he can. He pulls the trigger of the gun. He feels warmth against his forehead and part of his eyebrow. The blast deafens him and he cannot hear the next three shots. They only come to him as warm flashes against his head. He feels his body spin and he wonders for a minute if he failed, if somehow the gunshots were not enough and the spinning is a hallucination brought on by the final moments of oxygen starvation. But then the cold metal of the grate hits him and it hurts. But the pain is good because, as he takes in his first full breath of air, it tells him that he is still alive.

There is a dull ring in his left ear, but his right one can clearly hear Maria's shrieks. He turns over and sees her entire body writhing inside her web of flesh. There are bullet holes running up and down her body. Black slime oozes out of them. She shrieks again and then the steel frame begins to rock back and forth in the air. It finally teeters over and crashes violently on the grate.

Maria is wheezing now, a deep and throaty rasp. James stands up. He can feel the sting of a heat blister on his eyebrow. His neck is heavily bruised and it aches with every turn of his head. The butterflies are dead and he begins shaking them out of his clothes and hair as fast as he can. Maria continues to wheeze. He finishes the last of the insects, switches magazines again, and moves cautiously over to Maria's body.

The head still twitches, though its movement seems restrained. The tentacles lay splayed out near the lower end of the bed frame. They are motionless except for the occasional spasm. He keeps the gun trained on Maria. No exit for the platform has opened and he is uncertain of what to do.

Maria raises her head and looks at him with her vacant eye sockets. She smiles a toothless, lop sided smile. And then she speaks. But it is not Maria talking; it is _my _words that emerge from her mouth. Four words and four words only.

"_One more time, James."_

He is uncomfortable with my instruction, but he nods and sets the gun's sight on Maria's head. He takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger. The bullet strikes her between the eyes. But before I can revel in this final bit of carnage, a white light surrounds James and he belongs to Metatron.

I do not know why I am forced to endure this next part. It happens with every one of Them who achieves Redemption. Perhaps it is Metatron's retribution for my last indulgence, though I suspect it is merely a term of my imprisonment; pettiness is not in his nature.

The light vanishes and James is in a different place, though the first things he notices are the changes with him. His skin tingles, the ringing in his ear has stopped, and every minor ache and pain in his body is gone. He reaches up and touches his face. The cuts and abrasions are gone, as are the scrapes on his arms and several bruises. Indeed, a quick self-examination finds that every injury he has suffered since entering the town has healed.

The next thing he notices is that he feels considerably lighter. It is not a psychological feeling, but rather a physical one. He realizes that the gun and holster have disappeared, as have the baton and the flashlight. He checks his pockets and finds the spare ammunition clips are missing along with the radio. In fact, with the exception of the letter he received from Laura, every item he has acquired in Silent Hill has vanished.

"Hmm." He mutters.

"Come on dear, you've already answered that little riddle." A familiar woman's voice says to him.

He then recognizes his surroundings. He is in Mary's room at the hospital. He had not realized it at first because the room has a different smell. The ammonia is gone, replaced by the scent of flowers. The walls are blue and the room is well-lit by bright sunshine streaming in from the windows. A night stand with a fresh bouquet of flowers and a cushioned visitor's chair sit next to a small bed tucked next to one of the windows.

Mary smiles at him from the bed. The blanket covers her body and her head is propped up by a set of pillows. Her skin is still pale, but there are no other signs of illness. The dark rings under her eyes are gone, and her arms and hands no longer look frail. She smiles coyly at him and says, "James honey, you've been on your feet a long time, you need to sit down." She raises her right hand, "No tentacles, I promise." Her voice is slow and deep, as though she has just woken up from a long night's sleep. Which is appropriate, I suppose.

He chuckles and walks over to the chair. "I'm sorry," he says, "it's just that, well…I've seen so many strange things since I came here. I mean, is all this real?" He gestures around the room.

She gives a short laugh. "Well, yes and no. What you're seeing is about as real as anything in Silent Hill. But," she puts her hand on her chest, "you are communicating with the real Mary Sunderland."

He nods and sits down. "I'm sorry." He says to her.

"There's no need, James, I know the town's messed with your sense of reality—"

"No," he interrupts, "I wasn't talking about that."

"Oh." She says.

"Forgive me."

She reaches up and touches his cheek. "It's okay James. I told you I wanted to die. I couldn't stand the pain."

"That's why I did it, honey. I couldn't bear to see you suffer…" He stops himself. _I haven't come all this way just to start lying to her again._ "…No. That's not true. I did it because…" he feels tears well up in his eyes and he holds back a sob, "…because I hated you. I knew you said you wanted to live but," he manages to control his voice, but the tears begin to run down his face, "but you were such a burden and I wanted my life back."

She tenderly wipes his tears away. "I won't lie to you James. What you did was wrong. The town would not have sent the letter if it weren't. But if you really hated me James, you wouldn't be so sad right now."

"You struggled against me," he says absently, "and I just kept pushing down."

"James," she turns her head, "I was convulsing, not struggling."

"What do you mean?"

She nods her head towards the bouquet. "You know why I hated it when you brought me flowers? It wasn't because of the flowers themselves—they always brightened my day." She sighs, "It was—well, before the doctors said I was terminal, I'd always tell myself I would make it all up to you when I got better—the flowers, the cards, the nights together, everything. But, after the treatments stopped, I realized I wasn't going to get better. And that meant I could never make anything up to you again. So I began to hate it when you brought me flowers, because I'd never be able to do anything like that for you…ever." She puts her hand in his. "I was frightened when I saw you with the pillow, but when you put it over my face, I knew I found a way I could make it up to you. So I didn't try to scream or fight you. When you did feel me struggle it was because my body was having involuntary spasms." She frowns, "That doesn't sound as comforting as I thought it would."

"Mary, I—"

"Shh, James." She puts her fingers on his lips, "we can't talk like this forever, and there's a lot more I want to say to you that but I don't have enough time." She reaches under the blanket and pulls out an envelope and hands it to him. "Here, this is the letter I wrote to you—the real one." She giggles. "Laura's really a sweet girl, but I don't think she's got a future in mail delivery."

He takes the envelope and then remembers something. "You know, Laura knows what I did."

She smiles, "Don't worry. I'll talk to her. She'll understand. " She sighs happily. "Now that you know the truth about Silent Hill, I don't think Laura will seem as bratty to you." She closes her eyes. "James?"

"Yes?"

"There's one thing I forgot to say to you in the letter."

"What?"

"Go on with your life." A smile touches her lips and she falls silent.

"I will." He gently kisses her on the forehead. He gets up from the chair and quietly opens the door. He takes one last look at the sunlight shining down on his wife's sleeping face and then gently closes the door behind him.


	29. Epilogue: Leaving The Town

Epilogue: Leaving the Town

He is outside the hotel now. It has transformed back to its original, abandoned state and, if he had any inclination to look inside, he would find that it looks much as it did before he left room 312. He goes to one of the benches overlooking the lake and sits down. The mist is no longer grey, but white, indicating to him that somewhere overhead, the sun has broken through the clouds and, he hopes, will begin to burn off the gloom that has surrounded him since his arrival. It has already begun to thin somewhat and he can see the dock and the streetlight from where he is.

His wounds have healed, but he can feel soreness from all his physical activities begin to creep into his muscles, and the soles of his feet are raw. Though he did sit in the chair next to Mary's bed, his mind was on other things then, and only now does he have the opportunity to truly appreciate the rest he is given. He takes the envelope out and looks at it. Mary has written his name on it, and apart from missing the address and all marks left by the postal delivery service, it appears identical to the one he received from the town three days ago. He has a brief feeling of coming full circle. His trip to Silent Hill started with an envelope like this, and now it ends with another such envelope. He opens it and takes the letter out. It too, resembles the letter from the town, though this one is longer and obviously complete.

_In my restless dreams,_

_I see that town._

_Silent Hill._

_You'd promised you'd take me _

_there again someday._

_But you never did._

_Well, I'm alone there now…_

_In our "special place"_

_Waiting for you…_

_Waiting for you to_

_come to see me._

_But you never do._

_And so I wait, wrapped in my_

_cocoon of pain and loneliness._

_I know I've done a terrible_

_thing to you. Something you'll_

_never forgive me for._

_I wish I could change_

_that, but I can't._

_I feel so pathetic and ugly_

_laying here, waiting for you..._

_Every day I stare up at the cracks_

_in the ceiling and all I can think_

_about is how unfair it all is..._

_The doctor came today._

_He told me I could go_

_home for a short stay._

_It's not that I'm getting better._

_It's just that this may be_

_my last chance..._

_I think you know what I mean..._

_Even so, I'm glad to be_

_coming home._

_But I'm afraid James._

_I'm afraid you don't really_

_want me to come home._

_Whenever you come see me,_

_I can tell how hard it is on you..._

_I don't know if you_

_hate me or pity me..._

_Or maybe I just disgust you..._

_I'm sorry about that._

_When I first learned that_

_I was going to die, I just_

_didn't want to accept it._

_I was so angry all the time and I_

_struck out at everyone I loved most._

_Especially you, James._

_That's why I understand_

_if you do hate me._

_But I want you to_

_know this, James._

_I'll always love you._

_Even though our life together had_

_to end like this, I still wouldn't_

_trade it for the world. We had_

_some wonderful years together._

_Well, I don't want this letter to go _

_on too long so I'll say goodbye._

_I told the nurse to give_

_this to you after I'm gone._

_That means that as you read this,_

_I'm already dead._

_I can't tell you to remember me,_

_but I can't bear for you to_

_forget me._

_These last few years since I_

_became ill...I'm so sorry for_

_what I did to you, did to us..._

_You've given me so much and_

_I haven't been able to return_

_a single thing._

_That's why I want you to live_

_for yourself now._

_Do what's best for you, James._

_James..._

_You made me happy._

_Love forever,_

_Mary_

The letter is a bittersweet comfort. Had Mary died of the disease, it might be of more solace, an apology and expression of gratitude from beyond the grave. But, being her murderer, only the latter holds true for James. It is some consolation to know that, apart from the one exception, all his efforts in their last years together did not go unappreciated. And the closing paragraphs will help him remember to look to the future. But the first part of the letter is a painful reminder of that one exception and it will stay with him until the end of his days. But that is as it should be. Silent Hill does not serve to be a fix-all for Their lives.

When his eyes touch the last word, both he and the mist begin to fade away. I have seen this many times before and I know what is happening. He himself is not disappearing, he still sits on the bench, probably enjoying the view the sun now offers. But he is no longer one of the Damned. He is an outsider now and, like Laura, under the protection of Metatron. I have no ability to detect his presence and he will witness the town as it stands now in the real world, untouched by me.

I do, however, see James Sunderland one last time. He has chosen to return to the rest stop the same way he came in, through the forest. Another Lost Soul answering the Call has made his way to the graveyard. The man hears voices approaching and as the fog begins to dissipate around the outsiders, he conceals himself behind one of the larger tombstones. He hears the gates opening and he peers cautiously around, keeping his head low to avoid discovery.

The voices belong to James and Laura. They walk together, though Laura occasionally skips ahead when she finds something of interest on one of the gravestones. She says something to James that makes him smile and he says something back that makes her giggle. I do not know what brought about their reconciliation, but I suspect Laura and James are destined for greater things and Mary must have given Laura some insight into this. They now make for a familiar pairing and indeed, the man assumes that they are father and daughter.

The soul pulls his head back behind the tombstone as they pass near him. He sits in silence and listens to their conversation.

"…think I really can?" Laura is in the middle of a question.

"Well, that's up to the adoption agency. But I think Mary would've liked that, and I would too." James answers.

"How long will it take?"

"I don't know. I don't think I can do much about it until after the funeral."

The man can tell from the sound of their footsteps in the grass that they have passed him, and he edges his head around the stone to look at them again. Their backs are to him and, unknown to all, they are near the spot where James first saw Angela appear in the mist.

Laura is once again walking alongside James. "It's okay James." She takes his hand. "You can take as much time as you need." She gives it a reassuring squeeze with a serious expression on her face. But it only lasts for a second and then she smiles impishly and skips ahead to the exit gate.

"Hmm." He says, with a trace of a smile.

"What?" She asks, turning to face him.

"Nothing," he answers as he opens the gate.

"What?" She says again, not believing him.

"It's nothing, I swear." But he still cannot quite remove a smirk from his face and she eyes him suspiciously as he steps through the open gates. "So," He starts again, trying to playfully change the subject, "are you sure that's what Mary actually said about the acacias?"

Laura decides to play along. "Yep, that's what she said." She giggles and follows him through the gate.

He is still smirking when he pulls the gates shut behind him, "Well look, here's what _really_ happened. I was in the car and…" but his voice is lost as the two of them travel up the dirt path into the forest. The man in the cemetery creeps over to the gate and cautiously watches them as they make their trek back to the rest stop.

This is the last I will see of James. Of his future, I know little, though Metatron is very good at tying up loose ends and speculation is not too difficult. In the immediate future he will drive to the nearest law enforcement agency with Laura. He could take her straight back home, but he wants to avoid any appearance of impropriety. Laura will likely have to stay there while he drives back to his own house. There he will stow the letter away someplace safe. Then a shower followed by sleep. By this time tomorrow, the horrors of this town will seem like just another bad dream. He will suffer no legal repercussions for his actions. Laura will never say anything and, now that her body has been embalmed, no coroner will be able to determine with any certainty that it was not the disease that had killed Mary. His time in Silent Hill is considered punishment enough for the murder.

As I have said before however, the town is not a fix-all, and while he will not have the murder weighing on his conscience, he still must deal with the death of his wife. There is a funeral to attend, and friends and family to talk to. Such a dramatic change in one's life is not easy to deal with. The funeral will not recall the sickly, temperamental Mary he knew from the last three years, but rather the Mary he knew before then. The serene, yet passionate woman he met and fell in love with. It will remind him one last time that she is gone forever. And that will be hard to take, even now. I can see him choking up at the eulogy, and one of Mary's friends taking over for him. There will be more paperwork too. Mary had amended her will before she started treatments and he had avoided talking with the lawyers about that, in part because he had been busy enough with the insurance companies and in part because, at the time, it represented a possibility he was not ready to acknowledge. And finally, once all of Mary's affairs have been taken care of and his bereavement leave ends, he will come home from his first day of work, sit down on the couch in the living room, look down at the floor and ask himself, "Now what?" Perhaps then, he will pursue adopting Laura. A recent widower is not an ideal adoptive parent, however as children grow older they become more difficult to place and it is possible, given Laura's new amiability with James, that an exception might be made. Regardless of what he chooses however, he will find some meaning in his life because the one thing I _do_ know about his future is that, whatever else he may do, nothing will be so horrendous that the town will see fit to Call him again.

In truth, I do not care what happens to James and Laura outside of the town just as I did not care what happened to Cybil or Harry or anyone else that has escaped Silent Hill because this story has never been about Harry or Cybil or James or Eddie or Angela or any other of Them. It is about _Me_.

I tell the story of James because it was with him that I first truly acknowledged my punishment. Until he came to the town, I had been deluding myself. I had believed that I was content with my place in Silent Hill. I thought of myself as the unwillingly appointed jailer for the Damned. But James was the first time I was forced to admit that it was not so. Others have found Redemption before, but it was James who frustrated me. Here was a man so blinded by grief and guilt that he went into total denial over his role in his wife's death. He should have been so easy. I threw monsters at him. Spitters, mannequins, nurses, hangers, Pyramid Head, and even things that had never been intended for him, such as Angela's father, yet he defeated them all, though I suppose one could expect that from a killer. Then there were the less tangible threats, designed to drive him mad. The hospital, the Labyrinth, the videotape, and, of course, Maria. Maria. I had put so much effort into her. It was not easy crafting a near duplicate of Mary, but I considered her my crowning achievement. After all, she managed to get him to fall in love with her in the span of less than twelve hours and that was no small accomplishment. Her death nearly killed him in the hospital. Somehow though, James always maintained a shred of rationality throughout his stay in the town and that was his ultimate savior. To be sure, Laura's presence played no small part in his survival. Her interventions saved him in the hospital and in the hotel, but if it was only of her doing and nothing of his, then the Labyrinth would surely have claimed him. But it did not. He survived and moved on. He was teetering on the brink of madness for so long and, though I tried so very hard, I could not push him over. To have been bested by one such as him has led me to this awful realization.

I share a kinship with the Damned. It is because I am one of Them, the very first One to be precise. Their corpses litter this town and I realize now that I am just another one, lying in the gutters. I do not mean this in the literal sense of course. Corpses are, by definition, dead, and I am not dead because there is no bitterness in death. Only silence and rest. A corpse, however, is also the refuse left behind by a soul that has departed into the next world. While they could once move, speak, and live, they are now nothing more than lumps of flesh and bone that can do nothing but lie there and rot. They are hollow shells, mere shadows of their former selves. And that is what I am. A mere shadow of the mighty god that walked the earth in Silent Hill. He was the first One to come to Silent Hill in search of something more than what he had. But even with all his power, he could not survive in the town. And now I am his corpse. Beaten, bloody and broken, residing here for eternity, just like those rotting husks in the streets and buildings. And it is that thought that hurts more than anything else that could have been done to me.

I could ruminate more on the significance of James's escape and this twisted "mercy" that was given to me, but he and Laura are now out of sight of the man in the cemetery and I feel Metatron slowly drawing my thoughts away from the outsiders. Besides, it does me no good to dwell on such morose things. I have other duties, which I do my best to enjoy. Angela still wanders the town and it is almost time for her to find another knife. And of course, here in the cemetery is this new soul, I have such hopes for him. At my bidding, the woods are again enshrouded by fog. The man is puzzled; the outsiders are an incongruity to him. But I use it to my advantage. _If father and daughter can come away from the town smiling and unscathed_, the thought fills his head, _then there must be little to fear from a venture into the town_.

And so it begins again...

Many Lost Souls enter Silent Hill, seeking answers to Their troubles. Some of Them find the Path to Redemption, but when finally faced with the truth, They choose to deny it and instead embrace Their crimes. To Them, the town becomes a place of fantasies fulfilled. But They quickly forget that violence begets violence and it is not long before one of Their fantasies fights back and claims Their miserable life. Such a one was Eddie Dombrowski. And such a one am I.

Other Lost Souls come to Silent Hill and roam the town, hoping to solve the questions that the Call brings with it. Sometimes They find them, sometimes not. What They all have in common is a refusal to pay the price Redemption demands. So They are left to wander the town until time, rather than the town, grays Their hair, wrinkles Their skin, and withers Them away into dust and bone. Such a one was Angela Orosco. And such a one am I.

Finally, there are a few of Them who come to Silent Hill to find answers to what haunts Their dreams at night. They manage to fight through the horrors, find the answers, and, while facing Their own fears, offer the Sacrifice, resist the Temptation and make amends for Their misdeeds. To Them, the town grants Redemption and They are once again free to roam the earth and eat, shit, and die.

Such a one was James Sunderland.

And I am bitter.

END


End file.
